Minotaur
by christinaking
Summary: It's the summer of 2015, and Prentiss and Morgan find each other again under horrifying circumstances. "The path to paradise begins in hell."― Dante Alighieri (Casefic, Demily)
1. Chapter 1

_A/N - I'm going to try and navigate this one while staying within the "M" boundaries of this site. A new challenge for me! There is BDSM here, eventually, but it's not a deliberate choice. You'll probably figure out what I mean after reading this first chapter._

 _And...Lordy...I told my family I finished The Sun Chariot and didn't have a new story to work on yesterday morning. I went story-free for about 29 hours. LOL. Demily and my twisted mind...damn them! :)_

* * *

PROLOGUE

 _Brooklyn, New York_  
 _August 3, 2015_

I like New York fine in the spring and fall. Even winter is okay, when there is either no snow or fresh snow on the ground. But the smells that rise up from the ground in the humidity and sizzling furnace of an early August heat wave are something I can do without. I lean forward in the passenger seat of the Suburban and peel my sweaty t-shirt away from the skin on my back, hoping to get a little reprieve from the heat with a cold blast of air from the air conditioner, but despite the fact that the thing is pumping full blast, it's not doing much to cool the air inside the vehicle.

I'm in a foul mood, and neither the heat nor this case are improving my disposition. The team has sensed something is wrong with me the past few days; they're all treading carefully around me and trying not to pry.

Four days ago, when we returned from a case in Cleavland, I arrived home to an empty house. Savannah wasn't home, which wasn't surprising since it was the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. What was shocking was that half the furniture was gone, her clothing was gone, her personal items were gone.

I'm feeling like the world's biggest fuck up right now; we couldn't even last a year living together. And I'm pissed, not because she left, which I can understand given the constant tension that's always been there regarding my job. I'm pissed because of _how_ she left, without warning or saying a word.

She wouldn't answer my phone calls when I tried to contact her. I finally texted her to ask why she had to do it this way. Her response: _Because you would have talked me into staying and trying again. I'm tired, Derek. I can't do it anymore._

That was the last communication we had with each other, and I've been stewing in self-pity and anger ever since. I notice the glances Hotch is throwing my way as he drives the car towards Borough Park, and finally sigh. I shift back against the passenger seat roughly and say, "Savannah left."

I watch his mouth open and close as he tries to come up with some response to that. "I'm sorry, Morgan" he finally says. "Do you need some time?"

My laugh is bitter. "No, I don't need time to wallow in a half-empty house. But, thank you."

Hotch pulls the car to a stop in front of a small, run-down apartment complex, and turns to fully face me. "We need to go up and talk to the parents now, but if you want to talk when this case is over, I'm here for you."

I nod. It's all I can do. I know Hotch and Rossi would understand exactly what I'm going through, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to talk about it yet. I step out of the vehicle and am blasted by a wall of heat; I look up to the fourth floor of the apartment complex, where there are black curtains hung over the windows, the likely residence of Mr. and Mrs. Bogorahz.

Ari Bogorahz is the third young boy to go missing in Borough Park, Brooklyn, a predominantly Orthodox Jewish neighborhood. The ten year old Hasidic Jewish boy was walking home from the community center early this afternoon when eyewitnesses say he was approached by a police car. They say they watched him willingly enter the vehicle. And that was the last anyone has seen of him.

The Brooklyn PD unit that the eyewitnesses saw did not match any official police cars currently in possession of the department. The first two young boys from this neighborhood who went missing were found dead twenty-four hours later. Each had been beaten and sodomized. That's when we were called in, but right about the time our plane was landing in New York, Ari got into the police vehicle and never made it home.

The parents are little help when we talk to them. Their building might be rundown, but their apartment is neat and orderly; they clearly do the best they can with what they have. They confirm what we already know: Ari was a kind boy, a good student, a friend to all and trusting. He would never get into a vehicle with a stranger, but he might get into a vehicle with a police officer, if that officer's story hit home. Yes, they confirm, if the officer said something happened to his parents, they could see him getting into the car.

All I can imagine as they talk are the horrors happening to that innocent-looking boy right now. He's fresh-faced and young looking. He may be ten, but he could pass for seven or eight based on his pictures.

The other two victims were about his age, and just as innocent looking. Autopsy reports show that they put up a good fight; there was skin under their nails but no DNA matches in the system. There were bruises on wrists and ankles indicating that they pulled and fought. Their vocal cords were swollen and irritated, indicating that they screamed until they couldn't anymore.

I can't look at the parents and tell them the truth, but as I consider what we know so far, and what they are telling me about their son, I hope to hell he doesn't fight. Passivity might be Ari's best course to survival. I also can't tell them or even face the reality that if he's passive and just accepts what's happening to him, he might wish he was dead in the long run.

As we're leaving the apartment, Hotch is ahead of me on the stairs. I bend to tie my shoelaces on the landing and feel a hand on my back. When I turn, Mrs. Bogorahz is there with tears in her eyes. "Ari means everything to me, Agent Morgan. He's a good boy, a smart boy. He is kind and loving. Please, please, promise me you won't give up trying to find him."

She shoves a picture at me, a different picture than the ones I've seen so far, of a giggling Ari hugging his mother, his forehead tilted so it's resting against her cheek. I have a similar picture of myself at the age of nine in an album at home, me hugging my mother like this, looking so happy and carefree before my world fell apart.

I look at the picture and then back at her. There's a lump in my throat I manage to swallow past. "I won't give up," I promise her.

* * *

 _Tottenham, London_  
 _August 6, 2015_

I'm never quite sure how I feel about Sam O'Brien whenever I meet up with him. The fourteen year old kid he was back in 2004, before I went in with Doyle, was someone I only had pity for. The young orphaned boy who had run away from his group home was kidnapped off the streets, sold several times, and repeatedly raped by his "owners" for five years before we happened upon him as part of a routine drug bust.

He opened our eyes to a whole new world, and a whole new line of investigation into a major sex trafficking ring that only lead to dead ends. I was getting close to opening up those dead ends when I was pulled out and Clyde Easter informed me that Ian Doyle had become Interpol's main focus.

Sam fell off the map for several years, and only resurfaced about a year ago, a little over two years after I started running London Interpol.

The Sam O'Brien I met back then, at the age fourteen, is far different from the Sam O'Brien I know now. Back then, he was a hopelessly damaged kid, a young boy I sheltered in my arms as we made our way out of the run-down flat after arresting his current owners.

Sam had stories to tell back then; his last owners bought him for cheap because he was already used up in the eyes of pedophiles. But in a cloudy story that involved drugs and incredibly wealthy people, he told the tale of being sold as a nine-year old boy for nearly six-hundred-thousand pounds. He told stories about the Minotaur, an anonymous entity who calls himself that, who paralleled his sex trafficking after Dante's Inferno, with seven layers. The first three were easy to penetrate; they involved BDSM shows, swinging, and participation in group sex, very often rough sex. The fourth layer involved the purchasing of adults, and required an invitation by an inner member. It only got worse after that, with the final layer offered up to the most exclusive and trusted members, to purchase children.

I tried to help Sam after I initially met him, but he disappeared into the streets, and then I became Lauren and went in after Doyle.

When Sam showed back up at our offices in the summer of 2014, he asked after me. It turns out Sam went back to the underground life he knew, but he remembered me, asking for Emily Prentiss at the front desk. And he was willing to be our informant. The web he wove was so intricate that it was almost impossible to believe, but his stories have panned out so far. He's penetrated to the fourth layer, where kidnapped adults are up for auction, but hasn't been able to get any further.

Still, we pay him to be our informant, and he does share information willingly, but he'll only talk directly to me. He's also been unable to get into the deeper, inner workings of the human trafficking ring, the part that involves the selling of innocent minors. It's an exclusive club, he says, and there are only a few ways to get in, most of them involving a certain layer of absolute trust and far more money than we're willing to pay him.

I'm not willing to hand over the money because I'm not sure he can pull it off; I think he'd blow it far before he got an invitation to attend the auction that involved children. But we're getting closer to the end of August, the time the Minotaur sells the seven young males and seven young females he's been given by various associates around the globe, and we need to get in there if we have any hope of saving those kids.

The reason I have a difficult time reconciling myself with our association with Sam is because I believe there's a certain part of him that enjoys the debasement and illegal activity that goes on in the club he's part of, even if he's not trusted enough to know the details of all the inner workings. And I have a difficult time reconciling myself with the whole concept of letting the little fish go in order to get to the big fish. Real people are being damaged, are being victimized, and they are pawns. We could go in and get them now, but we're waiting because we want to be able to get to the children, and the Minotaur, before they disappear.

I lean against the wall in an alley and wait for Sam to show up, which he does, right on time. He's wiping his nose obsessively, and I know he's been using cocaine, but he has pictures in his hands. "New shipment. Adult auction a week from today. They gave a preview tonight."

I take the three pictures from his hand. The first one shows a middle-aged Caucasian woman, the second a twenty-something year old Asian man. But the third picture causes my legs to fall out from underneath me, literally. I sink into a crouch against the brick wall and stare.

"They're very excited about that one. You should have heard the crowd when they announced he was an FBI agent."

I can't catch my breath. I can't utter a word. If I do, I know I'll start screaming, or I'll start crying. I'll probably throw up, because I feel my stomach churning as I squat there. I am looking at a picture of Derek Morgan, with a blackened eye, collar around his neck and chains attached to his wrists and ankles. He's completely naked.

The blood is rushing in my ears and my heart is beating at an inhuman rate. I stand again on shaky legs and tell Sam to stay posted for our instructions. I take the pictures with me. I don't make the drive back to my office, and head to the airfield instead. I don't know how in the ever loving fuck this happened, how Derek Morgan was taken, but I feel like a stone has been thrust into my gut and it's weighing me down.

Derek is in there with those terrible people. I don't know what's been done to him, but if Sam's information is correct, probably nothing more than manhandling and a few good punches. They don't do anything to you, as an adult up for auction - that's up to the people who buy you.

Which means I need to get in there and buy Derek Morgan back, somehow. I have a week to do it, and I'm going to face a mountain of resistance because Interpol is counting on us getting into the child auction at the end of August. Already my mind is formulating a plan that they'll accept.

I call a pilot and drive towards our jet. I need to figure out how they got Derek and where the team is now, but at this moment it's just crucial that I get into the air heading towards the United States, so I can talk to Hotch and the rest of the team. I need know whether Derek is in there willing, under a different undercover operation, or if he's been taken. I don't trust the airwaves to have this conversation over the phone or via a computer, because all signs point to the fact that there are people involved in law enforcement who are also part of the Minotaur's trafficking ring.

I'll call Clyde when I'm on my way, and I'll tell him my plan when I'm safely at the BAU, where Penelope can monitor the conversation and make sure we're not being overheard.

There's only one option here if Morgan's been unwillingly taken: I'm going in after the man who was my friend far more than I'd ever let anyone be my friend in the past. I'm going to get him out, and, in exchange, I'm going to have to volunteer to stay in there and stay undercover until we can close this case and catch the people in charge.

It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make; I was already on my path there as an undercover agent, a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman in my mid thirties, back in 2004, before they pulled me out and told me to focus on Doyle.

 _Just like riding a bicycle,_ I tell myself as I approach the jet. I ignore the blind fear inside of me.

I'd probably do this for any member of the BAU, but Derek Morgan is different, he always has been. He's my partner even if I've been gone for more than three years now. He always had my back without discretion, and forgave me for keeping things from him even when he shouldn't have.

I owe him this.


	2. Chapter 2

August 6, 2015  
Location Unknown

 _You're in a hell of a mess, Morgan._ This is the thought that swirls through my cloudy mind. They bring me food and water then inject me with something, I fall asleep, and then hours later I wake up in a fog. Shortly after that, food comes again and the process starts over. Each time I wake, I try to stay lucid enough to piece together exactly how I got here, how long I've been here, and how the fuck I might get out of this. All I know for certain is who put me here, and that I've eaten four times since that night.

When Hotch sent us back to the hotel around midnight to get a few hours of rest on our second night in Brooklyn, I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep. At that point I'd only managed a few hours a night of sleep for five nights as it was. I should have been exhausted, but I was wired. And I also was overwhelmed with that feeling like I was just barely missing something, something that might help us find Ari and close this case. I was holding out hope for Ari; the twenty-four hour window had passed and we still hadn't found a body.

When I closed my eyes, the previous two days came back at me, conversations and people's faces floating through my mind. Ari's mom was there in my mind, her sad eyes. And Hotch's face when I told him Savannah left. And the multitude of faces and conversations I had with shop owners near the area where Ari was picked up by the unknown police cruiser.

I sighed and got out of bed, knowing sleep would be impossible. I slipped on some running shorts and my sneakers, tucked my room key in my left sock, and decided to go for a quick run to clear my head. At midnight, it was still hot outside, but not nearly as hot as it was during the day. I saw no one as I exited the hotel except the front desk clerk, but there were still people out on the street here and there.

As my feet pounded on the sidewalk outside, my thoughts went back to the case.

Lieutenant Peter Daniels of the Brooklyn PD had been helping us throughout the past two days. He was ex-FBI. His career started in Brooklyn, but then, much like me, he decided he wanted to be an FBI agent. He worked sex crimes for the Bureau for six years, and then, according to him, returned to Brooklyn when his parents died, so he could help take care of his brother. None of us had ever met him when he was at the FBI, but Hotch had a vague recollection of his name.

Daniels had a solid read on this case, but no clues to work with, which was why he called us in. We agreed with his assessment that this was not likely sex trafficking; this was a pedophile, a serial murderer. The unsub likely didn't take the boys with the intent to kill them, in fact, like many pedophiles, we believed he actually thought he loved them, and they him. There was evidence that pointed to that - for all the marks on the boys' bodies we'd found, prior to their death they'd been groomed and cleaned. They were both wearing new clothes when we found them. The unsub likely lost it when the boys fought back, he probably felt rejected.

If this was trafficking in any way, the unsub would not have stuck with the same borough. We all agreed we were likely looking for a man in his early to mid-forties, someone who had likely committed crimes against children before but had never been caught. The only point on which we disagreed with Daniels was on the unsub's motives for picking Borough Park as his hunting ground: Daniels contended that this might be a hate crime; we contended that it was more likely convenience. We'd been lucky so far, but the Hasidic Jewish community was relatively isolated from the police, and didn't like talking to investigators in general. Plus, in terms of innocence in a big city, Borough Park provided ample victims in the ten-year-old range who were likely less worldy-wise than other ten year olds in the Brooklyn area.

 _It doesn't matter anyway,_ I think to myself as my naked body shivers on the hard concrete floor of my locked cell and I remember being so hot a couple of days ago I thought I would suffocate. _It was all bullshit. This was a sex trafficking case all along, and who better to throw up smoke and mirrors than a man who had worked sex crimes for the FBI for six years?_

There was one phrase that came back to me that night as I was running, my mind swirling. It was something said in the middle of back and forth conversation in the bullpen at the police department. An Officer Craig leaned over after we gave our profile and said, "I'm glad he finally called them in," to another officer. The officer replied back, "No kidding. It was about time. Maybe we can find this kid before it's too late."

It barely registered to me at the time, it was just chatter I overheard while my mind was otherwise preoccupied, but it registered in my mind clearly that night while I ran. Daniels had never said outright that us being there had all been his idea, but he'd eluded to it, several times. So why did Officer Craig make it sound like Daniels had to be convinced to call us?

I decided to take my run towards the precinct to see if Daniels was still there, and fish around a bit. It was probably nothing, but I couldn't sleep anyway, so what could it hurt?

He was still at his desk when I got to the precinct.

"Agent Morgan," he said, surprised. "Couldn't sleep?"

"No," I responded casually. "I decided to go for a run, and then I ran here and decided I wanted another look through the evidence."

"Absolutely. I understand. I can't sleep either. Would you like some coffee?"

"Sure," I replied. I went to sit in front of the laptop that contained the street surveillance we'd been able to find on all of the boys. We'd already determined that the first two boys had been picked up in alleys, with no eye witnesses. They cut through them on their walks. They went into the alley, but they never come out on the other side. Ari likely would have cut through the same alley on his walk home the day before, but due to the kidnappings, his parents had warned him to stay on the sidewalks. Why they let him out there to begin with is beyond me, except that they felt that their neighborhood was safe, it was just the alleys that were not.

What was interesting was that we never saw a car emerge from the alley, either. And, in Ari's case, we can see the police cruiser in two frames, but then it disappears, too.

Our unsub knew the streets and the street cameras, and I'm fairly positive he knew the victims as well.

When Daniels came back with my coffee, he glanced at the surveillance video. "I keep hoping something will jump out at us," he said.

I thanked him for the coffee and took a sip, contemplating the man who was now sitting in front of me. "How come you didn't call us right when the second boy went missing?" I asked.

Daniels looked down and shook his head. "I wish I had, but I was following what I thought was your protocol. I hoped we'd find that boy, and when we found his body instead, I called you because I thought I had a viable serial case on our hands."

His answer was plausible and also technically correct. Still, that guy was making the hair on the back of my neck stand up for some reason, and I was trying to talk myself down from being overly-paranoid. I covered for my initial question. "That is our general protocol, but as ex-FBI, if you ever have a feeling something like this is going down, give us a call anyway."

He nodded. "Hopefully I won't ever have a case like this again."

I pulled over the box with some of the contents from Ari's bedroom that the local PD had brought over late that evening. Without any other clues, we decided another sweep of the bedrooms of all the victims was in order.

We hadn't been through it all that thoroughly yet because it seemed unlikely that there would be any clue there, much like there were no clues in the residences of the first two victims. We'd spent two days pounding the pavement in the brutal heat and had only come up with dead ends.

I picked up a few of the drawing notebooks in the box; Ari was an excellent artist, but his notebooks were a combination of poems, thoughts and drawings. It was when I was flipping through the pictures in the second notebook that I saw the undated picture. "Pete brought me a coke today when I was walking home from the community center," and beneath that, a sketch of Ari walking on the sidewalk and a police cruiser, this one with numbers I recognized on the side because I'd ridden in it earlier that day. Peter Daniels' cruiser.

I casually closed the notebook and set it back in the box. Daniels was staring at me and I took a couple large gulps of coffee. Then I tried to stifle a fake yawn, but finally let it out. I stood; I didn't want to leave the notebook there, and I didn't want to make a big deal of taking it. I needed to talk to Hotch, but couldn't call right there. My cell phone was back in my hotel room.

"I'm getting a little tired. Are you going to look at this box at all tonight?" I asked Daniels.

"Probably not," he responded with a shrug. "I was planning to leave that box to you guys for the morning."

"Would you mind if I took it back to the hotel room with me, in case I wake up again? I can give it a thorough search if that happens."

"Be my guest. Just take a copy of the log with you." said Daniels. "You want a ride back to the hotel so you don't have to carry that box several blocks? I think I'll head out myself and try to get some sleep."

My brain went on overdrive. The best thing for me to do was to act like nothing was amiss and I had no suspicions of him. So I quickly smiled and nodded and accepted the ride.

The next thing I remember was a stab of pain in my thigh, and then everything got cloudy. I remember Peter Daniels whispering in my ear, "It's really too bad you had to see that picture. I was planning to get rid of that notebook and clear it from the evidence log before you all came back in the morning."

And then it was just blackness. When I came to, naked and chained up, I had no idea how long I had been out.

I don't know if I've been transported somewhere or if we're still in Brooklyn. I haven't seen Daniels and I haven't seen Ari. I don't know what the team has been able to piece together, or if they're still working side by side with Daniels.

What I have seen are two men who come in with the food and water and drugs. One holds a gun on me while the other unchains one of my wrists so I can shovel in the meager amount of food I'm given. I call them Thug A and Thug B, because that's as creative as my mind can get in its drugged state. Thug A resembles Peter Daniels, and I wonder if he's the mysterious brother Daniels left the FBI and moved back to Brooklyn for. Thug B is much younger, perhaps mid-twenties. Both men have scratches on their arms and I'm willing to bet it was their skin that was found under the nails of the first two victims.

The first time they came in my cell, I tried to ambush them, despite the fact that my muscles were sluggish and I was in chains. They got in a few good kicks and punches; I know my eye is swollen, and I'm sure my ribs are bruised, but not broken. They didn't seem to want to hurt me too badly.

They like to take bets on how much I'm going to go for when they try and sell me in a week; all of them are in the million dollar range because apparently the idea of "breaking" an FBI agent really gets people's blood pumping. Last night - I think it was last night - they came in and made me stand. They took pictures of me naked. With my wrists chained to my ankles and trapped by my side, I had no hope of covering myself at all, and they likely wouldn't have allowed it anyway.

I remember when I first read the initial report about the two missing boys who had shown signs of fighting and ended up murdered; I knew the key to potential survival with whomever took them was being passive.

It seems like I'm in the same boat now. My best hope for escape is to get out of this locked cell, to actually be sold, and to be passive enough that someone lets his or her guard down so I can get away.

When I think about that, all I can remember is being passive with Carl Buford so many years ago, and what that did to me. But I'm an adult now. I'm physically and mentally strong enough to get through this and choose the best course of action for my survival. My passivity as a teenager was due to fear; my passivity this time will be about vengeance.

I'm going to bring Peter Daniels down.

I'm shaken from my thoughts when I hear the lock being thrown on my door and it opening. I blink at the harsh light that fills my dark, concrete block. The thugs are back. It looks like Thug B is carrying a pile of blankets. Thug A is carrying a gun and has it pointed directly at me.

"Time for a little trip, Agent Morgan," Thug A says. He tosses me the keys to my cuffs and watches as I clumsily unlock first one ankle, then the next, and finally my wrists. Then he tosses me my running clothes that I was wearing that night at the precinct. I'm surprised that it seems they've been washed. I pull them on and then dutifully put my cuffs back on and shuffle my way to a standing position. My knees are shaking; part fear and partly the drugs in my system.

"Where are we going?" My voice is gravelly and I slur over my words.

I watch Thug A shrug at Thug B, like me knowing where we're going couldn't possibly matter. I blink and try to focus and I realize that Thug B is not carrying blankets, but a sleeping child. _Ari Bogorahz._ I show no emotion, but my heart pounds in relief and hope because he's still alive.

"Your plane's all ready. Pete had to send for someone to come get you both since he's a little busy searching for you and the kid with your pals right now," says Thug A with a sinister grin.

Thug B chimes in. "This one here," he nods towards the sleeping child in his arms, "Has a date with someone in Tuscany. After we drop him, we'll get you settled in just outside of Vienna for a bit until it's decided where the auction will take place. There are so many people running around, trying to come up with the cash they need in seven days in order to have the chance to buy you, Agent Morgan. We're going to make sure your bruises are faded and that you're nice and ready for the winner. We get twenty percent, after all."

I feel bile rise in my throat and my stomach churns. The fact that they're so willingly sharing details chills me to my bones. They are confident that I have no hope for escape.

I try to hold back, but I can't help myself. My parting gift to the cold concrete floor of my cell is a puddle of vomit.

* * *

August 6  
Over the Atlantic Ocean

When my pilots first get me in the air, I take thirty minutes to gather my thoughts and calmly assess the situation. I open my laptop and pull up that morning's Washington Post. There it is - a picture of Derek Morgan on the lower left corner of the front page, the headline reads, "MISSING FBI AGENT."

I scan and see he's missing during an investigation taking place in Brooklyn and pull up The Times. I get more details on my computer screen. Derek's face on my computer screen seems to be staring right at me and I trace my finger over the picture. I haven't seen him in over a year and half and I can't believe I let it go that long.

With shaking fingers, I click on links and watch news conferences delivered by Hotch, JJ and one Lieutenant Peter Daniels of Brooklyn PD. I learn about missing, dead boys and Ari Bogorahz, who has yet to be located. Each detail makes my heart race faster. I combine what I know of the Minotaur and his organization, what Sam O'Brien has told me through the years, and what I'm hearing about a missing ten year old in Borough Park.

And then I see a bit of evidence that makes my heart feel like it actually stops for a moment. Daniels is speaking to the press, looking haggard and deeply concerned, his shirt sleeves rolled up and sweat on his face. He pushes his sleeves up even further and then gestures to a reporter in the audience and I catch a glimpse of his inner arm. I quickly freeze the video, look for the clearest frame, and take a screen capture, blowing up the image on my monitor until it starts to become distorted.

I can hear my shallow, rapid breathing as I open another folder on my computer, the folder that contains the scanned images from Sam O'Brien, many of them drawing he made during therapy that first month after we found him when he was fourteen, back in 2004.

I blink back unbidden tears in my eyes and my hand instinctively moves to cover my heart. Back in 2004, I thought Sam was drawing pictures of a pitchfork standing upright in a pile of red. He could never explain the picture, he couldn't explain much at all when he was first taken when he was nine because we determined he'd been heavily drugged during that time. But now I'm positive that what he was drawing back then matches the tattoo on Peter Daniel's inner arm.

Not a pile of red, but what looks like red roses.

Not a pitchfork, but horns.

Horns in roses. Horns that you'd find on the head of a bull, or a creature that was half man and half bull - a minotaur.

I close my laptop and bend my head forward, taking in a few cleansing breaths, my plan altering in my head based on this information. I'm going to need to figure out a way to be in two places at once: Virtually in the United States, as Emily Prentiss, a concerned friend and ex-colleague who wants to help in the search for Derek Morgan; realistically in Europe, wherever the Minotaur takes me, as a wealthy, powerful dominatrix who is no stranger to human trafficking and ready to make a purchase.

I stand and go to the cockpit. "La Guardia Airport, or JFK. Whichever one you can get landing clearance for the fastest. And when we land, rest however long you need and then you can head back. An old colleague of mine is missing and needs help. I don't know how long I'll be in the states." I say this calmly and seriously. The co-pilot turns to give me a sympathetic look and then both nod in affirmation.

There are currently seven people I trust in this world, my old BAU team and Clyde Easter. My trust does not extend to my pilots nor what might be said out loud on this plane and heard by ears I don't know about. I need to land and buy a burn phone before I call Clyde, and I can't call Hotch right now. It's not that I have proof that anyone at Interpol is directly involved in this, it's more like a hunch. Clyde and I have managed to keep Sam O'Brien a secret, but last year, before Sam came back, it seemed like the Minotaur's group was always one step ahead of any team we tried to send in to gather information.

Besides, even if no one at Interpol is part of this, the fewer people who know what I'm up to, the better; even the most trusted agent will talk for the right price. I'd experienced that once before, when a list of names that included Lauren Reynolds was given to Ian Doyle by someone I'd always trusted before.

I don't think Peter Daniels is the Minotaur, not at all. But I do believe he's right in on the inner workings of the organization, one of the select few who provides the Minotaur with his seven female and seven male children throughout the year, and this year he's providing a last-minute bonus, an FBI agent. Derek must have asked the right question or seen the wrong thing and now he's gone. There's more to it than that, but I'll tell Hotch when I see him in person. If we scare off Daniels, there is a very good chance the auction will not take place next week, at least not an auction where Sam has information about the location, and I could lose Morgan forever.

I correct the thought that initially comes to me on its own. Not _I_. _We_ could lose Derek Morgan. Morgan's my friend and I care about him, but he was never mine to lose because I wouldn't let him be.

I shake my head and get my thoughts back on track. I look at my watch and consider the time change.

I text Hotch:  
 _You know what I was randomly thinking of today? That hotel in midtown we were staying at when Will showed up and we first found out JJ was pregnant. Do you remember that place? As I recall, the bar was pretty nice. I'm thinking of heading there to get a drink around 6:30 this evening._

I wait anxiously for two minutes and receive the response I knew would be coming.  
 _I remember. I could definitely use a drink._


	3. Chapter 3

August 6, 2015  
Manhattan Midtown Hilton

It's six-forty in the evening when I check into my hotel room. After, I find Hotch already in the bar, with JJ and Reid. I pull up a chair at the table and greet them like somber friends who would greet each other when someone they cared about was missing. This is a critical piece; there are cameras here, and I'm in an overly-diligent mood.

"Where's Rossi?" I ask.

"He's currently accompanying Peter Daniels on a wild goose chase for a spotted police vehicle, orchestrated by Garcia. We have two hours or so," Hotch replies with his head bent towards to the table.

I raise my eyebrows.

"When your cryptic text came in it took me about a second to realize that things were likely not what they seemed. Garcia was getting ready to board a plane and head to New York, and I called her off. Thirty minutes later, Reid took notice of a box of belongings from Ari's bedroom, and a log that had been tampered with. There should have been five sketchpads in the box, but there were only four, and a log in different handwriting only said four. It was at that point that I realized we just needed to bide our time until you got here."

I nod at Hotch. "I'm in room 324. Let's head on up. As a group. It will look worse if surveillance shows you all coming up separately."

They nod at me, their eyes red and tired and so deeply concerned.

We quietly make our way up the elevator and into my room. I throw my go-bag in the corner and close and bolt the door. I take out my phone and face it towards them as I turn it completely off. They follow suit. I place my phone in the bathroom and turn the shower on full blast and they mimic me, leaving their phones in the bathroom.

When we're gathered back in the bedroom with the bathroom door closed, I start talking. "That's probably unnecessary, but I'm not taking any chances that your phones are being bugged. This is serious business, not some small-time pedophile. Daniels, I'm pretty sure, is one of the people working for someone I only know as the Minotaur, and his job is to provide children for sex, children who are used and then sold to the highest bidder at the end of every August. Except for two children, one boy and one girl, who are considered the purest and most innocent; they are saved for their purchasers. They go for millions, and, given the time of year, I currently believe Ari Bogorahz is being reserved for that fate. Derek must have asked the wrong questions and was taken. He's going up for bid on the auction block in a week."

I reach into my bag and place the picture of Derek on the table. Reid flinches and JJ tears up, but Hotch just stares.

"How did you get this?" he asks.

"I have an informant in London. Don't worry. When people start bidding on Derek, I'm going to be in there to buy him."

All eyes turn to stare at me in horror and disbelief. I blink a few times. "I've been in with them before, kind of. In 2004, I went in. I made it through a few trials in sex clubs, but before I was invited to be part of any purchasing, Interpol pulled me and started prepping me for Doyle instead. When I went in initially, I was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman from Russia name Katarina. Interpol made it look like Katarina died in a horrific boating accident after they pulled me. I'm intending to go back in as her sister."

Hotch clears his throat. "I can't imagine you can just waltz back in there."

I shrug at him, keeping up a cool exterior I in no way feel in my heart. "I know more than I did then. I have an informant, and more money to work with as the head of London Interpol. Derek's going to go for at least a million dollars; I intend to walk in there with three." I pause and look at the faces staring at me. "Three million, that is. I've spoken with Clyde." I pause again and pull out my burn phone as evidence because they're all looking at me like this can't be real, and I totally understand where they're coming from. I can't believe it myself. "Clyde is flying here with an assumed identity on a commercial plane later tonight. He's going to show up tomorrow morning and we're going to lay this all out."

"Lay what all out, Emily?" JJ asks.

I tell what I know of the Minotaur, every last detail to three of the people in this world whom I trust. I tell about how me going in means that I'm going to have to stay in until the end of August, in order to strike a bargain with the highest echelon of Interpol. They'll give me the money I need, and, at the end, I'll deliver them fourteen children and the people who put them up on the auction block. And The Minotaur.

They stare in silence when I'm done. "Minotaur," Reid finally says. "Half man, half bull, said to roam the labyrinth built by Daedalus."

"Think of him not in the context of traditional mythology, but in terms of Dante's Inferno, Reid. He was said to be delivered seven female and male youths, and it was one of the reasons Dante created the circle of lust in his circles of hell."

Silence descends on the room again. JJ manages to clear her throat, "You can't go in there alone."

"I won't be at first. I'm going to be Irina, the sister of Katarina. A rich, Russian woman, buying a gift for my husband, who will be played by Clyde. I'm not sure what name he'll choose, but he's working on all of that now. Tomorrow, we're going to get everything ready. And by everything, that means we're going to tape me walking around as Emily on a green screen so that you can splice me into conferences and in pictures as necessary as you film things that are broadcast about the hunt for Derek. This hotel room will be mine for the duration. It needs to look like I'm in the states helping you search for Derek. The reality is that tomorrow evening, I'm going to board a plane to Moscow, with a few detours and several identities, and then I'm going to board a plane to London with Clyde under a different identity, as Irina. Once I get in and get Morgan back, Clyde, my husband, will have emergency work in Russia. He'll take Derek with him. Derek will lay low until the end of August, and I'll bust the trafficking ring as Irina. And then we'll all go back to our regular lives."

More stares directed towards me, and it's finally Hotch who laughs bitterly in disbelief first. "That sounds impossible. Whose going to be listening to your chatter?"

I shake my head, "No chatter. I'm going in with no wires. I know you all can't probably grasp this, but tomorrow, when Clyde shows up, you're going to see two people who can entirely remake each other. You're going to see two people who can make our fingerprints and DNA disappear temporarily and come back to our aliases. You're going to see two people who can conjure up three million dollars in midair, and you're going to see a woman, me, who looks very little like the Emily you know. You're going to see Irina who can pound alcohol and suck up cocaine that won't effect me because I'll be taking pills that block its effects. I'm going to wield a whip and orchestrate submissive people into doing what I want, because I can become that person. I'm probably going to have to sleep with people I'd rather not sleep with, and I'm going to have to say things that make me nauseous on the inside. I'm going to have to talk about pedophilia like it's the best thing on the planet, but I'll be fine. I'm going to do it in order to get to the end result. That's the Emily you don't know, and it's who I'm going to become to get Morgan back."

JJ is not buying my calm exterior for one second. She stands up and bangs her fist on the small table in the hotel room. She puts one hand on her slightly protruding stomach as if by instinct. "You are not going in there without one of us!"

My eyes flutter. I wasn't expecting this. Before I can say a word, she continues, "There is no way in fuck, Emily. No way! They don't know!," JJ yells while pointing at Hotch and Reid, "They don't know what that kind of undercover work did to you, but I do. Don't you forget that! You told me all about it on a plane to Paris. You're not going in there without one of us!"

I blink rapidly and try and gain control of my tears. I find myself yelling and crying, which is the last thing I wanted to do. "What that did to me is nothing compared to what this could to to Morgan! Nothing! Think about it!"

Hotch and Reid have been looking between the two of us, like spectators at a tennis match. JJ deflates at my stare and the tears streaming down my face. I brush at my tears angrily and Reid pipes up, "Daniels hasn't seen Garcia."

At that, both Hotch and I look at Reid and I shake my head. "No way," I say.

I expect Hotch to back me, but instead, he says, "It's not a terrible idea. She doesn't have to be in the thick of things, but she can monitor things from afar. She can research and provide information and covers as they become necessary, and she'd be a direct, secure link to us."

I'm scared as hell, but I cave a bit. As our emotions calm down and we talk a more, I watch as Hotch uses my burn phone to call Garcia. I find myself calling Clyde a couple of hours before he's supposed to board his plane. I don't like the idea, but I'm also comforted by it. I tell Clyde to prep for one more person, his sister, my sister-in-law, who will be played by one Penelope Garcia.

Of the most breakable of us all, Penelope Garcia is probably it. And, yet, with vehemence and determination, she wants to go in with me.

I don't like it, but I should have known better than to think that the BAU was going to just bend to my plan. For the same reason I trust them with my life, they trust me with theirs. Which mean we leave no man on his or her own if we can help it.

It's Reid who finally utters what I tried not to contemplate for about six hours on my flight: "I believe you'll get Morgan back. But what happens when you do, and he won't let you go back in alone?"

Hotch chimes in with, "Savannah left him. He's going to think he has nothing to live for here, which means he's only going to fight harder to go back in with you."

It's unfathomable to me, what Reid and Hotch say. But I know it's probably something I'm going to have to contend with.

"I don't know," I say. Because I honestly don't. In the deepest part of me, I know I can handle this, no matter what comes my way. But I can see Derek Morgan breaking. It's absurd on a surface level to see myself stronger than Derek Morgan, but when it comes to something like this, I could run circles around his emotions. Its the reason why in the spring of 2012, I was able to just walk away from him when he was proposing something greater than I'd ever seriously allowed myself to contemplate between the two of us.

His heart is like an ocean, and mine is like a wall, with layers upon layers of brick and mortar. And I can't let his ocean go into this situation willingly, because I can see myself continuing to stand tall, sturdy and strong, but I can only see Morgan being washed away in the end.


	4. Chapter 4

_August 7, 2015_  
 _Midtown Manhattan Hilton_

JJ stays with me and Garcia at the hotel while we get to work. Hotch told Daniels that JJ wasn't feeling well, the heat and the stress taking their toll on her pregnancy, and that she'd been ordered to rest for the day.

JJ says it's important that the team know every detail of the case and our covers, but I think she's mostly here because she wants to protectively watch over both of us until we leave for our flights later this evening. She keeps watching me, and sometimes shakes her head before she catches herself. She knows this is our best - our only - option for getting Derek back, but she clearly does not like it.

She and Garcia help take videos and still pictures of me against a green screen that Garcia brought with her when she flew in the night before. The team will soon be ordered to return to headquarters since there are absolutely no leads on Derek's disappearance or Ari's. When they get back to DC, with some crafty editing software that Garcia gives JJ a crash course in operating, it will appear like I am actively working in the background when Hotch has some carefully executed video conferences with Lieutenant Daniels.

When the team returns to DC, JJ will use my credit card to check me into a hotel there. As it stands now, Daniels knows that I've flown to New York to provide comfort and any resources to the team. But he hasn't met me and he doesn't need to, provided the team is ordered home tomorrow like we believe they will be.

It's important that all Daniels sees of me are vague images behind Hotch, and never my profile. I have a distinctive nose, and while I would undergo plastic surgery in a heartbeat if it meant getting Derek back, there simply isn't time. There's a very real likelihood that sometime before the end of August, I'm going to have a personal conversation with Peter Daniels while I'm undercover as Irina. It's critical that he doesn't even think of Emily Prentiss when he meets me.

Clyde arrives shortly after we finish taking the pictures and videos; he's laden with two large duffel bags and several shopping bags from a high-end lingerie store in New York that contain everything we need to become other people. The illegal supplies he obtained not from Interpol, but from an arms dealer and counterfeiter who owes Clyde one. I never liked the side deals Easter made with criminals over the years, but I'm thankful for them now.

Our plans have altered slightly in the past sixteen hours, mostly due to some hard questions last night from the ever quick-thinking Spencer Reid. I had the opportunity to talk with Clyde briefly last night before he got on his plane about what it really meant to have Penelope coming with us, and who exactly Irina would feasibly be if she wanted to go from the outside and straight into a human auction in approximately six days.

Clyde and I can both pull off being Russian, but Garcia can't. And on that off chance that someone meets her or speaks with her, we need to protect her cover. So I will be Irina Popov, sister of Katarina Popov, who died in a tragic boating accident back in 2004. Clyde will be Evan Greenfield and Garcia will be his sister, Anna Greenfield. Evan is my submissive partner, not husband. Because after tossing things over with Reid, and then with Clyde, we determined Irina Popov would not do something as conventional as marry. It's crucial for the success of this plan that I come across as unabashedly confident and in charge of my household, a woman who has more money than she could possibly spend in a lifetime, and who is never, ever submissive.

My last name is only important if people try to run my prints, and I'm hoping they do because it means I'm being checked out and getting closer to Derek. And when someone tries to run my prints, they will come back to Irina Popov, and Garcia will get a notification. Then those people will likely run a search for Katarina Popov, and when they do, they'll find a couple of carefully planted news stories from 2004, about a terrible boating accident in San Diego.

JJ and Garcia watch in awe while Clyde Easter brings out wigs and different colored contact lenses. We take turns taking pictures and creating two different passports for ourselves, temporary identities that will allow us to travel out of the United States or anywhere else we might need to go while we're undercover. JJ flips through the fake passports that are only missing our pictures, and Clyde has a small machine to effectively put everything together for us. The passports won't be as good as we could get, but they'll work.

Then he gets things set up to create our long-term covers. He starts with my hair, and while he expertly sections it, squirts it down and begins to cut, he catches JJ and Penelope's eyes in the mirror. "I'm a man of many talents. ladies. I've been doing this sort of thing for over half my life now, and it's not always possible to have someone on the outside doing all the detailed personal work for you. Penelope, darling, we'll only need to give you a trim and take a straightener to your hair. But we will need to dye it brown."

Penelope blinks and nods and keeps watching along with JJ while Clyde quickly and efficiently cuts about seven inches off my hair, leaving me with a chin-length bob. Once that's complete, he begins the process of bleaching the hair on my head and eyebrows so that it's ready for the vibrant red dye he'll apply later. We're going for a certain look, one that says that I'm not hiding, that I want people to notice me, that I may be in my forties, but I'm definitely not middle-aged when it comes to my appearance or proclivities.

While the bleach is setting on my hair, Garcia quietly takes my place and Clyde trims her hair and then starts applying brown dye. "Your name," Clyde says to me while he works on Garcia.

I've thought a lot about this, I thought about it nearly the entire night before after I got off the phone with Clyde: We can't rely on Sam O'Brien at all. It's a gamble - Sam could possibly get me the location of the auction, but he could also totally blow my cover, and then it's game over. Also, Irina Popov would not be invited into a club on the wings of a twenty-four year old drug addict; she'd consider Sam O'Brien well beneath her. The safest path is to get where I need to be on my own. I decide to play out that scenario for Clyde and see what his opinion is.

"Irina Popov," I say in a Russian accent. I speak to Clyde's and Garcia's reflections while I sit next to JJ on the hotel bed, and I speak as if I'm talking to someone at the club I'm going to walk into tomorrow. "My sister was Katarina, perhaps you remember her? It was a terrible tragedy when she died. I'm still not over it. Yes, of course we look similar! When we were younger, people thought we were twins! It's why I started dying my hair different colors while Katarina kept our natural blond. I loved her, but always wanted be my own person."

The key is in the personal details, not too much, just enough to seem genuine and believable.

"And what brings you to our club, Irina?" JJ pipes in, seeing what we're trying to do and deciding to participate.

I turn to look at her and blink my eyes slowly, "An email I received yesterday. Though I'm not very familiar with the scene here, I do still have some connections in the area because of Katarina. Katarina and I were _very, very_ close, and when I visited with her while she lived here, we shared _everything_."

JJ blinks a couple of times. "And what connections do you still have?" she asks.

I lean towards her and whisper quietly, "I never reveal my sources, love. But when I read an anonymous email yesterday, it caused me to leave my family's estate in Russia and immediately get on a plane."

"And what did you read?"

"Hmmm, perhaps it would be better if I told you a little story first. If you look up my sister's death in the newspapers, you'd find she had a terrible boating accident in California. What the papers don't tell you and what I know, because I was there, is that my sister got careless with certain _things_ \- actually one certain, very young _thing -_ and it was the FBI who was chasing her when her boat crashed against a rock." I lean forward and run my fingernail gently across JJ's cheek and down her neck, "So you see, don't you, why I might be very interested in that email I received yesterday? I can imagine no greater way to avenge my sister's death. Can you, milaya moya?" _My sweet._

JJ leans away from me and clears her throat. "You're scary as fuck when you're like this, Emily."

I lean back, smile softly, pat JJ's hand and drop the accent. "Sorry" I turn back to the mirror where Penelope is staring at me like a deer caught in the headlights and Clyde is grinning at me. He agrees. No Sam O'Brien. "Your name," I say to him.

He clears his throat and continues to apply dye to Garcia's hair. "Evan Greenfield," he says without his British accent.

"And where did we meet?" I ask him. I watch him consider his response, based on the scenario I just presented him. His mind works just as quickly as Reid's.

"My sister introduced us. You knew her first, and she found out you and she shared many of the same _hobbies_ , so then she decided to share me with you. I didn't like it at first, but what could I do?"

I stare at him. We're going well outside the norms of the BDSM lifestyle, which is traditionally and intrinsically about trust and consent, because the people we ultimately want to get to play by entirely different rules. I nod at Clyde. "The incest is a good call. The more actively entrenched in their lifestyle we can come across, the faster we can move through. But it worries me that it might lead to involving Garcia," I say while meeting Penelope's wide eyes in the mirror.

Clyde tilts his head and contemplates that. He gathers Penelope's hair and places a plastic cap over it, then removes the gloves covering his hands and tosses them in the trash. He meets her eyes in the mirror and speaks directly to her. "Let's have you get on the plane in Moscow with a wig and a different identity. You don't have to appear to be in town with us, we just need a cover in case someone happens to meet you."

Penelope nods her head quickly and then turns her body to stare at me. I touch her shoulder. "I won't let anything happen to you. You're going to be safely tucked away in a luxury penthouse suite at a hotel in London."

Penelope blinks rapidly and a couple of tears fall down her cheeks. "I'm worried about _you._ "

"Don't be," I say with conviction while I give her shoulder a squeeze. Already I'm feeling myself get lost in my cover, and the fear I felt yesterday is dissipating. Irina Popov would not be afraid; Irina Popov will get what she wants by whatever means necessary, and what Irina Popov wants is a kidnapped FBI agent to break and dominate as a means to avenge her sister's death. And I'm becoming Irina Popov.

Clyde moves to one of the suitcases and I turn towards him. "If we're not going to use Sam, we need to get him off the streets so he doesn't run into me while I'm inside. He'd try not to, but he'd blow my cover."

Clyde turns to face me, a paper bag in his hands. "I'll have him picked up tomorrow, before we get to London. A mandatory thirty-day drug rehab program should do it, and we can pull him out if we end up needing him."

My eyebrows arch up and I can feel the bleach drying on them. "How are you going to pull that off?"

In a Russian accent, Clyde responds, "I never reveal my sources, milaya moya."

That earns him a little smile.

He tosses a small plastic tub my way and holds up some cloth strips and a small, flat, wooden stick. "It's been over a decade since we've been undercover together in this capacity. How are you wearing your hair these days?" he asks while gesturing in the general direction of my crotch.

I blush and Clyde grins. "Do you need to wax?"

"Yes," I reply in a normal voice, wishing the heat in my cheeks would go away. I get waxed regularly, but not as significantly waxed as this situation is going to require. This isn't that big of a deal, but for JJ and Garcia to be getting a crash course in some of the more delicate workings of going undercover is embarrassing me.

"Warm that up in the microwave for a few minutes and then go in the bathroom and rinse that bleach out and take care of the rest of your hair," he says, gesturing below my waistline again.

I look at the jar of wax in my hands. I have a deep aversion to self-inflicted pain, and I cringe at the idea of doing this on my own, but there is no way in hell I'm letting Clyde or anyone else in that hotel room help me.

Clyde tilts his head again and looks at me. "Leave a little landing strip and let's bleach it to a lighter shade. If you're going in as a natural blonde who chooses to dye her hair red, let's give your story some visual validity for whomever your audience may be. Let's let the carpet match the natural color of the drapes, so to speak."

I cluck my tongue at him in disgust and ignore the slight smirk on his face. I know he's trying to bring levity to a tense situation, but I'm not in the mood for Clyde Easter's brand of humor right now. "You're a pig," I say to him as I head towards the microwave in my hotel room.

"So I've been told by you, several times throughout the years," he responds.

When I'm standing in front of the microwave and the only sound in the room is the whir of the appliance as it heats the wax, Clyde moves to stand beside me. "We'll get him back, Emily. I won't give up until we do, that much I can promise you. And if we can only get him back and you can't deliver on The Minotaur, Interpol can fuck themselves."

People can say what they want about Clyde Easter. He can be crude, and he loves embarrassing me, but at the end of the day, he truly cares about me, and therefore truly cares about anyone I care about. He helped me hide Declan when I needed him to, he didn't blink when I hopped on the jet to take off and help save JJ when I needed to. And now he's here, prepared to go undercover and breaking the law to get us there, and possibly publicly have to play the role of my submissive partner, because I need him to.

"Thank you," I tell him as I swallow past the lump in my throat right before the microwave dings.

I grab the tub of wax and turn to face Garcia and JJ who are staring at me in horrified fascination. It was probably when Clyde mentioned an "audience" seeing me naked that did it, that slapped the reality of this situation hard, right in their faces. This is very real, and I'm not going to get to Derek without going through a few tests, and I know it. Probably several people will do more than just _see_ me naked.

I smile at them reassuringly. "I'll be out in a bit," I say casually as I head towards the bathroom.

* * *

 _August 8, 2015_  
 _Location Unknown_

I'm supposedly somewhere near Vienna, but the truth is that this place looks no different than the place I originally was held. The exceptions are that there are more people here and I'm no longer in chains all of the time. There's also more food, but I'm still being drugged.

I'm not sure if their calculations are off, or if my body is just metabolizing what they give me faster than is normal, but my moments of lucidity are becoming longer. I try to pretend they're not, that I'm just as out of it as I was before, as I assess my situation. There's no way out. There are guards and I'm locked in a cell, and when I'm allowed to roam a bit, it's only into a slightly larger cell, with another thick door and more guards.

After what I think is about a day and half, a woman I've never seen before opens my cell door. "Come, pet. It's your turn," she says to me.

When I raise my head to look at her, she slaps me across the face. "I didn't give you permission to look at me," she hisses.

I bow my head and stand up. I follow her out of my cell and into the larger room. Thug A is there with a gun in his hand.

They have me lay on a padded table and I have to hold back a sigh; it's the first soft surface I've touched in several days. But I don't feel like sighing when the hot wax touches my body. The woman explains that it wouldn't do for my skin to be irritated when the auction comes, so it's time to take care of me now. She seems to be enjoying herself quite a bit, based on her tone, as she talks to me while another woman strips every bit of hair off my body.

I cringe and clench with each rip of the wax and the woman only laughs as her finger runs up and down my penis. She keeps this up for some time and I feel myself getting hard despite the pain I'm in and the disgust I feel. And then Thug A shouts out, "You're not supposed to touch the merchandise!"

Her hand disappears and her laughter quiets. But the wax still gets spread on my body and then ripped away and I feel like it will never end.

* * *

 _August 8, 2015_  
 _Club Equinox, Leicester Square, London_

I stare at the face of Irina Popov in the mirror of the bathroom at the dance club and can feel the thumping music reverberating through the bathroom door and across the linoleum floor. I've been here for two hours now, several people have bought me drinks, but I've seen no one I can make contact with about getting an invitation to one of the private clubs. My timeline is frighteningly small and I'm hoping to find someone that I recognize from my Katarina days. The person who initially invited me to a private club back then is, thankfully, in jail on drug trafficking charges. He's the only one who would wonder why Katarina had never mentioned a sister.

I pat some powder on my face and make sure my eyeliner hasn't smudged too much; the blue accentuates my blue contact lenses nicely. I gently re-apply red lip stain over my sensitive, bruised lips. The collagen injections Clyde gave me yesterday did their job and my lips are tastefully fuller, but they'll be bruised for a few more days.

I'm in here alone tonight because time is wasting; I need to be in a private club by tomorrow night if we're going to pull this off the way we think is best. Clyde and Penelope are back at our hotel frantically hacking away and planting a history for Irina Popov on the internet that corroborates the story I'm planning to share with just the right person tonight.

I touch my diamond earrings and glance at the expensive diamond ring on my right hand. They're real. Clyde took them on the sly from Interpol's supply of undercover accessories. The one piece of jewelry he bought yesterday morning in New York was a platinum ring with a triskellion symbol on it, the subtle message that's supposed to let others who share the same lifestyle know that if they've got whips and bondage equipment, I'm in.

My outfit, a black, tight leather dress with a neckline that plunges to nearly my navel and a hem line that falls about mid-thigh leaves little to the imagination, but lends to the mature, wealthy aura I'm trying to portray; it's far more clothing than many of the women in this club are wearing. I'm also sporting tall, patent leather, black boots. It's been a long time since I've walked in spiked heels, and it's a miracle I haven't fallen on my ass yet.

I open the bathroom door and head back out towards the bar and the dance floor, and that's when I spot her. She told me her name was Helena back in 2004, and I had two conversations with her back then. She's a dominatrix just like Irina, and she has one hell of an amazing tattoo on her back of a fairy in black leather flying over a man who is on his knees beneath her, chained, with a ball gag in his mouth. I can see it from here because her hair is pulled up and her corset is cut low on her back.

My heart races in excitement and anticipation. This is exactly what I need. I can make a connection with her based on a description that Katarina may have given to me about Helena's tattoo back then. I can make the first strike - rather than someone thinking I might resemble a woman they once met, I can introduce myself to Helena and fill her in on my back story before she asks any questions.

I stand tall and walk confidently towards Helena, and she catches me in her sight before I reach her. Her green eyes are laser beams and she looks me up and down slowly as a small smile plays on her lips; she's intrigued.

I spend an hour with her in the club, first just chatting in the quietest corner we can find, and then cutting to the chase, telling her basically the same thing I said to JJ the day before, right down to swiping my nail gently against Helena from cheek to neck. Helena neither confirms nor denies the story about a potential FBI agent that might be available, but her stunning eyes never blink away from mine. She might be trying to read me, but I can read her better because it's what I've been trained to do for nearly twenty years. She is buying my story, and I'm both surprised and slightly exhilarated by the fact that I still seem to have it - that uncanny ability to go undercover so completely.

I leave her with my cell phone number, in case she might be able to help me out, like this is not all that important and I have ample time and endless patience. I tell her I'm staying at the King's Suite at the Corinthian in London and her eyes raise a bit at that; the room is over seven thousand dollars a night. I leave my glass on the small table in the bar, and when I stand to leave, I don't look back, but I know with little doubt that she's going to take that glass with her.

If Garcia gets a hit that someone ran my fingerprints tonight or tomorrow morning, we'll know I'm on my way.


	5. Chapter 5

_August 9, 2015_  
 _King's Suite, Corinthian Hotel, London_

I have to give Penelope Garcia a lot of credit; she's not backing down from this. In fact, she's thrown herself right into the ring of fire, saying that if I need her to go in with me, she's up for it. There's a fierceness inside her like I've never seen before, and I know it has everything to do with the fact that Derek's been taken. I was expecting when we got a moment alone without Clyde around, she'd break down and cry. Instead, with unblinking eyes and steady hands, she offered herself up for the same hell I'm about to experience.

There is no way I'm letting Penelope Garcia anywhere near any private club I'm invited to - she has zero experience with anything like this and I'd never forgive myself if something happened to her. The private clubs are not terrible; in fact if you're into BDSM, they're relatively safe places. Legal and safe. No one, technically, is there unless they want to be and no one forces you to do anything. But I am going to have to play my cards just right, and I don't want Penelope to have to play any cards at all. I don't want Clyde to have to do so either, but that one is inevitable.

There's a domino effect to this whole scenario. There are clubs like Equinox, edgy and on the fringes, but public. Most people who go there don't want to go any farther than just the thrill they get by dancing and drinking in a place where employees dressed in scraps of leather dangle in cages over the dance floor and put on a show. The private clubs put on serious BDSM shows, and there are private rooms inside. That's as far as I got in 2004. But beyond that, there are far more layers, private residences that go beyond what would be legal at a club. And then, with people caught up with The Minotaur, there are human auctions for adults and children, and pedophilia and people participating who are there against their will, people who have been bought and are offered up to be shared.

Of course, much of this information comes to me from Sam's drug-induced childhood memories, which are fuzzy to say the least. He knows about the auctions and sees the pictures because there's no point in hiding it from him. The people who participate in such things see Sam as completely submissive; the young man who had escaped from them and then willingly went back. Though he's received money from us, money that looked like a legal malpractice settlement when you searched it out, he's only received enough be able to "rent" adults for an evening, and it's the only time he's allowed to experiment with being the dominant one. He's not actually been at a live auction since he was nine years old and was being auctioned off himself.

The one part of this that really still frightens me is that Clyde and I have no clue just how large the inner workings of this whole outfit is. There could be less than twenty people who make it all the way in. Or there could be a hundred. It's probably not more than that or they couldn't have gone on this long without being caught. But when you think about fourteen children, every year for at least eleven years, that's a lot of people out there who are now grown and have seemingly disappeared. The fact that Sam is the only one we found is what makes Clyde and I know that this operation does not only take place in London; they probably move the auctions around quite a bit. The fact that Derek and Ari were taken from the United States only lends credence to the fact that this is probably a worldwide operation.

When I first got back to our hotel last night, I gave a report about what happened at Club Equinox and about Helena. Clyde was pleased. After I told them the whole story, I removed my contact lenses and changed into comfortable pajamas - grateful to exchange the ridiculous leather dress for soft cotton - and returned to the spacious living area in our penthouse suite.

Clyde and Garcia told me about an impenetrable, fake internet trail that was now in place for Irina Popov, various bank accounts that added up to around ten million dollars, but no more. Irina wouldn't keep all of her money in traceable accounts. Irina also has a tidy little arrest record, from when she was twenty-three. She was arrested at the same S&M club as her sister, Katarina, during a raid. It's the reason Katarina had fingerprints in the system back in 2004, and it's a nice touch to Irina's story, that Katarina and Irina were arrested at the same time.

Irina has an estate in Russia, a villa in France, and a house in San Diego - because Evan and Anna's family are from there. Of course, she really owns none of those things, but the only way we'd be caught is if the real owners of those properties started searching for them on the Internet.

We can't worry about that. There's a certain point during undercover assignments where you just have to take a chance and hope for the best. But bringing Penelope along certainly seems like a better idea with every minute, because she's set up phishing viruses on everything she can - not only will she be notified if people access certain websites and articles or research me, we'll be able to triangulate their location.

In over three years with Interpol, I still have not come across a technical analyst who even comes close to accomplishing what Garcia can in such a quick and efficient manner.

It was right after they finished telling me about the internet trail they'd laid that Penelope's laptop dinged. She looked at her screen and smiled. "You were right, Emily. Someone in the Hyde Park area just ran your prints."

Clyde stood immediately and excused himself to go shopping. It was after midnight, but the store he was planning to go to was open all night. "More supplies and clothing," he said as he left the suite.

I sat back on the couch and opened my own laptop at that point, a new one we picked up at a shop in Heathrow Airport. I needed to do some research. While the computer started up, I looked at Penelope. "How are you doing, Garcia?" I asked softly.

She stood up and came to sit next to me on the couch. "I'm okay, Emily. I'm worried about you and I'm so scared for Derek, about what might be happening to him right now, but I trust you. If anyone can get him back, you can."

I smiled at her confidence in me. "If what Sam has told us is accurate, no one is touching Derek right now. They leave that up to the buyer. It's all part of the game, when it comes to them selling adults. They grab people and the purchasers get to break them down or do with them as they please."

Penelope stared at me for a few seconds. And that's when she offered to go in with me, if it would help insure that I was Derek's buyer. I didn't tell her there was no way in hell, because that would have pissed her off. Instead I told her that, for now, the best place for her to be was right here, monitoring things from the computer angle.

"How did Sam get Derek's picture out, Emily? These people don't seem like the type that would just let something like that wander outside."

"No, they're not. Sam doesn't wear much at all when he's in the clubs, but Clyde had a couple of his costumes fitted with hidden slots in the leather. He folds the pictures, and puts them in the one of the slots, and that's how he gets them out. He can't always do it; it depends on the number of copies being passed around, and where and who he ends up with at the end of the night."

Penelope let that information settle and quietly watched me launch my internet browser. "What are you up to?" she asked.

"I need to watch some videos. I pulled my role off pretty well when I was Katarina, but I had weeks to prepare and that was a long time ago. There's absolutely no room for mistakes here. I have to be perfect."

I searched for BDSM videos. Unlike 2004, when most of the videos were locked behind pay sites, there's a frightening amount of videos now that are just out there, for free, with no password required at all.

I started one video and she watched with me for a minute. "This really isn't my thing at all," I told her and cringed as I watched a woman flogging a man who was tied to a chain dangling from the ceiling. "I'm more of an equal opportunity player in bed, and pain does nothing for me, receiving it or inflicting it."

Garcia gave a quiet laugh.

"What?" I asked her.

"Just irony. When you walked out of here tonight to go to the club in that outfit, you pretty much rocked that look, but I could never see you hurting anyone. I can also see you snapping the neck of anyone who tried to tie you up."

"You're damn right I would," I said.

She laughed again, put her arm around back and leaned her head on my shoulder. "I've missed you, Emily."

Her simple gesture of affection caused tears to well in my eyes, and I frantically blinked them back. It had been a long time since I'd been the recipient of Penelope Garcia's unique, beautiful brand of kindness and friendship.

I swallowed past my tears and patted her leg. "I've missed you, too."

She sat right with me while I watched videos, which should have been awkward, but it wasn't. We were both getting educated. When Clyde came back an hour later, she stayed right with me while we sifted through his purchases. Clyde laid out various cock rings and trinity rings and said without humor or much inflection at all in his voice, "Practice with the different releases. You can't fumble at all."

We both followed him with our eyes as he picked up a three hundred dollar bottle of Macallan scotch and a glass from the bar. He took both of those and a bag into his bedroom and shut his door. I played with the releases, some as simple as snaps or velcro, but others obviously much more expensive, and much more complicated. All of them looked potentially painful, at the very least uncomfortable, but that was the point.

When Clyde came out of his room twenty minutes later wearing a thick, studded leather collar and a men's leather thong and nothing else, reality slammed into me about what I was probably going to have to do to Clyde, and likely do in front of an audience at some point. He didn't seem embarrassed. He's always been the type who treated undercover operations with a detached air of duty and resignation, no matter what was being asked of him; he demanded the same from his team.

He had about forty dollars worth of scotch in his glass, which he downed quickly. He rubbed the tight leather on his neck, and I knew what he was doing, trying to create a history of wearing a collar by chafing his skin a bit.

Then he walked straight towards me, picked up a bullwhip, handed it to me and said, "Think of all the times in the past you wanted to hit me, Emily, and give it your best shot. I can't go in with completely unmarred skin." He turned his back to me.

I stood frozen for a moment, the whip dangling uselessly by my side, feeling Penelope's concerned eyes on me. Clyde turned his head towards me. "I knew what I was getting into the minute we agreed that Evan needed to be submissive, Em. Go ahead."

I didn't try to stop the tears that flooded my eyes; I needed to get the emotions out of my system in the privacy of the hotel suite. I brought the whip up and pushed past the tight coil of nausea in my stomach. The first tear dripped off my face as I snapped the whip harshly against Clyde Easter's back...

As I lay here in my bed now at three o'clock in the morning, I play through the evening in my mind, I blink my tired eyes and try to will myself to get some sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the red, angry welts on Clyde's back, but that's not really what's keeping me up.

What's really getting to me is the idea of getting Derek back and him insisting on staying in with me. Clyde's one thing, and it's heartbreaking and frightening enough, but I could never physically hurt Derek Morgan. The very thought of it makes me want to throw up, which I've already done once since I turned in for the night.

When I picture Derek Morgan, I see him in my bed after JJ and Will's wedding. I see myself making the mistake of letting go of all of my carefully maintained control for one evening. I see his gentle hands on my skin, and hear him asking me to reconsider London. I see him talking to me about the idea of getting a different job in DC since I'm willing to leave the BAU anyway. I hear him saying all the right things, about me getting my footing back, but not being so far away. I feel the memory of his lips against mine and his whispered breath that danced across my skin. " _I think we could work out, Emily."_

And with each word he uttered, I remember feeling myself wall my heart back in. I remember looking at him and thinking, _No, we could never work out, because I'm not the type who works out with anyone._

I can still see the look in his eyes when I told him calmly and absolutely that I was going to London. It was a look of pain and sadness, and I can't bear even the thought of being the person who puts that look on his face ever again.

I sit up in bed, snap on my bedside lamp and reach for my burn phone, open up my text messages and re-read the text I received from Helena about an hour ago. _The Corinthian is one of my favorite places to have brunch. Would you like to join me tomorrow?_

I'm not completely surprised that my act at the Equinox worked, but I still stare at that text in wonder. I owe Garcia for this one. Without her, I'm sure my online persona would have had holes and I would have never heard from Helena so quickly.

There's a light tap on my bedroom door and then it opens. Clyde stands there in an undershirt and boxers, smiling softly at me. "I saw your light was on. You need to get some sleep, Emily."

I put my phone down and nod at him. He walks fully into my room and sits on the edge of my bed. "It's different now, isn't it?"

"What's different?" I ask him.

"This type of work. It's been a long time since you've done this, and you're different now, too."

"I'm the same as always," I say, a hint of defiance in my tone.

"No, you're not. The Emily I met over a decade ago would not have teared up when she whipped me. She might have wanted to, but she would have held those tears back."

I look down, unsure of what to say. He's right. "It's just more emotional because Morgan is in there with those people, Clyde."

I see his hand before it touches me. He gently grasps my chin and raises my head so I'm looking at him again. "That's part of it, but not all of it. Don't worry, it's not a terrible thing, being empathetic and human, as long as it doesn't get you killed."

I manage a light laugh at that. I don't object when he reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp, and I do nothing more than raise my eyebrows when I feel him shift his body and lay down in bed next to me. He reaches out and takes my hand in his, tugs on my arm until I'm laying back down again.

"Is your back okay?" I whisper.

"It's fine. Doesn't even hurt," he responds.

"Liar."

He chuckles and gives my hand a squeeze. This is new behavior for Clyde that I've only experienced in the past four months or so. Not quite like this; he's never laid down next to me before or held my hand, but on the occasions we've been alone and not at work, he's been more generally warm and affectionate.

Clyde Easter has been part work partner, part brother, part pain-in-my-ass and part trusted confidant for years. There was a brief time when I distrusted him and thought he had sold me out to Doyle, and it hurt him deeply when he realized it. Neither one of us can believe that I ever once thought he'd betrayed me, and it took him awhile to get over it.

His new affection is not romantic and not sexual in the slightest. Clyde Easter is many things, and very definitely gay is one of them. I'm one of the only people who know that. I told him once a few years back that times have changed, that when he was in the Royal Marines and even when he first started at Interpol, there was a stigma attached to homosexuality, but it's not that way anymore.

He explained in his very Clyde-like way that there was nothing to say to people, that our jobs didn't leave room for a personal life, and there was really no reason anyone needed to know whether he was busy not shagging a woman or busy not shagging a man. I let it drop after that. He kind of had a point.

When he first gave me a long hug after I took him out to dinner last April for his fiftieth birthday, I asked him what had gotten into him. He'd laughed and shrugged. "Must be a sign of old age."

I don't ask him what the hell he's doing right now in my bed; I know he's trying to comfort me and reassure me without words. I'm one of the only people who knows he's gay, and he's the only person who knows about that night with Derek. He picked up on the tension between us when Derek and Garcia visited me in London and after they returned home, over dinner and drinks, he asked me about it.

After I told him the story, he stared at me for several seconds before saying, "What in the hell are you doing in London, Emily?"

I threw his words back in his face, that our jobs didn't leave room for a personal life, but he shook his head at me. "Don't lie to yourself and make my story yours."

That was the last we ever spoke of it, but I know it's probably why he jumped right in with this case and let me whip the crap out of him tonight.

Garcia may trust me to get Derek out, but I trust Clyde. I believe what he said to me at the hotel room in New York - he really will tell Interpol to screw themselves if I can't pull off what I promised. He'll going blazing into every residence Sam has managed to tell us about, round up whoever he finds, and take pleasure in torturing those people until someone cracks and tells us where Derek is. It's a decent back-up plan and I'm glad to have it.

Even as I lay here, I know I've already got one foot in the door of a private club tomorrow night. After brunch, Helena will ask about my suite, I'm sure. We'll hide Penelope away and I'll bring her up. I'll show off Evan, who will be dressed appropriately. She'll see the fresh welts and bruises on his back and I'll explain that I might have gotten a little overly-excited the night before because of the potential of what might be coming.

I've little doubt that I'll be in a private club with her in about twenty hours. It's going to be brutal.

I keep my hand in Clyde's and take comfort in the warmth and steadiness of it. I close my eyes and try to get a few hours of sleep.

* * *

 _A/N - This one is making my head and heart hurt more than any other story I've written! I also have quite a colorful internet search history now, because I'm delving into a world I know very little about._

 _Life is pretty mellow right now, which is why you're getting such fast updates. That, and the fact that I can barely sleep because I'm so entrenched with this one and need resolution as much as you do. I never write with an outline; I go with an idea, write the first chapter, get a vague idea for the ending, and then just let things grow as I type. Sometimes I'm just as surprised as you might be by some of the twists and turns - a few things in this chapter surprised me as I typed and the back story grew._

 _Anyway, thanks for reading and the reviews!_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N - I'm letting this story play out the way I see it unfolding in my mind, and there will be hints of slash, but not a lot of details. I see this as much more of an emotional journey played out on a darker backdrop as part of a casefile. I know that some people actively avoid slash stories, which is fine. We've all got things that make our motors tick. I've no aversion to slash stories, but Demily is very clearly one of tickers at the end of the day! ;)_

 _Also, a warning that this chapter goes a little deeper into the undercover operation than the previous ones. Sex and bondage are both navigated in this chapter in a way that lends validity to the story without getting too needlessly detailed (I hope)..._

* * *

 _August 10, 2015  
King's Suite, Corinthian Hotel, London_

" _Would you like to come spend some time with me and perhaps a couple of friends tonight, Irina?"_

Helena is pressed very close to me on the couch in our penthouse suite, and I know she's trying to take the upper hand with me. For now, I need to let her. But I imagine the volley between the two of us for control and domination is going to be pretty epic once this ball really gets rolling.

She runs her finger from my collarbone and down the opening of my button-up blouse, and then over the swell of my breast. "I think I'd very much enjoy it," she whispers in my ear.

I turn to look her in the eye. "Think? I _know_ you'll enjoy it."

She leans slightly away from me and removes her hand from my chest. She throws back her head and laughs.

Score one for Irina.

Actually, we're up about ten points in this little game, and by we, I mean Clyde and Garcia as well. Garcia picked out my outfit today for my public appearance in a nice restaurant, a combination of conservative and sexy. She grilled me on Irina's internet life, right down to the architectural details of my fictitious homes.

I was already in the restaurant when Helena arrived for brunch, a six-hundred-dollar bottle of vintage Dom Perignon Cuvee on the table. I smiled at her when she arrived and stood to kiss both of her cheeks, like we were the best of long lost friends. Helena was quite good, guiding the conversation to verify what she learned about me on the internet without directly making it seem like she knew anything about me at all.

I invited her up to my suite before she could ask, with the hint that there was something up there she'd might like to see.

That something was Clyde, and I've definitely got to give him most of the points, because he's sitting in a chair across the way from Helena and I right now, head bowed, naked except for leather collars around his neck, wrists and ankles, a sheen of sweat on his body, and an engorged and painful looking erection he can do nothing about because of the ring at the base of his penis and the fact that his hands and feet are strapped to the chair.

When we walked into the suite, he was already in position and didn't look up when we entered. Helena didn't even blink. She walked around his chair and took him in, smiling appreciatively at me when she saw his back.

"He's been like this all through our brunch?" she asked.

I smiled in a relaxed way and waved my hand at Helena. "Since well before then," I say.

The reality was that he'd only been like that for maybe twenty minutes because Penelope - bless her - didn't even blink when we came up with this plan. She said she'd take care of helping Clyde so he had to be like this for as little time as possible. Then she'd scurried down five floors to the hotel room we booked for her under one of her other names before Helena and I made our way up.

Helena's eyes were lit up, and she looked aroused. Clearly seeing Clyde like that did something for her.

I've seen Clyde naked and he's seen me naked, as part of various operations for Interpol, but it's been over ten years. I've never seen him fully aroused, and I've definitely never seen him like this - aroused to the point of very clear discomfort. While I watched Helena looking at him, I gave her something that I hoped looked like a satisfied smile. Inside, I was trying to keep the food and champagne I'd just consumed from making a reappearance.

Clyde hadn't been wrong several hours ago in my bedroom: I _am_ different now. I spent a long time with him going undercover and pretending to be an entirely different person, as my assignments required. But I spent a longer time with the BAU after that, remembering how to be human and real. Then I spent three years at Interpol doing a pretty good job of disassociating myself from both humanness and undercover work; I was the overseer and the person whose signature went on the dotted line, but I was emotionally removed from it all. The only time I let my emotions and connections with people out was went I went back to DC to help JJ. Other than that, I've been pretty much a one-woman show of detachment.

My worlds are colliding now.

I've in no way lost track of my goal, which is Derek Morgan foremost in my mind, but I'm also very much struggling with becoming inhuman and someone else again. Clyde knows it, but he's trusting that I can ultimately get this done. I won't disappoint him or myself.

When Helena looked like she might reach out and touch Clyde, I stopped her by taking her hand in mine and guiding her to the couch. "My pet is being punished right now. He's earned no tactile stimulation just yet."

After we chatted a bit more, with her practically on my lap, and after she'd taken the clip out of her hair and let her dark brown curls fall past her shoulders, she invited me to a private club this evening. I told her with conviction that she'd absolutely enjoy having me there, and here we are.

"Enjoy it I will," she says after she stops laughing. "But there is the matter of technicalities."

She stands to retrieve her purse that's by the door and returns to the couch. I watch her pull out a syringe sealed in sterile plastic, a rubbing alcohol pad and a tourniquet. "You understand, don't you?" she asks with a raised eyebrow. "It's my job to make sure my friends and I stay healthy and safe, and I take it very seriously. There are others who don't care, but I never play with them."

This makes sense in context; it's probably why Sam has never mentioned her by name. Helena wouldn't even consider someone like Sam, who is quite literally a hot mess.

Still, I'm not entirely sure whether she really wants my blood for a rapid HIV test, or if this is about testing my limits, or if she wants to run my DNA just to be sure, because altering the person one's fingerprints come back to is one thing, but altering the DNA databases is something else entirely. I'm covered in that regard. I hope this also means that she and her "friends" are disease-free, because I'm not going to be walking into a situation any time soon where you can just whip out a condom.

I'm struck with a flash of inspiration. She's going to see me naked soon, so why not use what I have to my advantage? I smile softly at Helena and stand. I lift my blouse and point to the scar on my abdomen, the scar from Ian Doyle. "I do understand about keeping who we care about safe. I got this when someone who was not careful let a stranger into one of the private clubs we frequent in California. He got out of control, and I stepped between him and Evan." I glance towards Clyde.

Helena reaches out and gently runs her finger over the large scar. "What caused it?"

"A broken leg on a wooden chair," I reply. "I nearly died."

I drop my blouse and sit again. I unbutton the cuff on my left wrist and fold, then push my sleeve up to my upper arm. I look directly in her eyes and extend my arm towards her. She looks impressed with my willingness and calm resolve.

"Of course, this means that you're asking me to blindly trust you," I say steadily while she ties the tourniquet on my arm.

"You can trust me, Irina," she replies as she swipes the alcohol over my skin.

"The only person I ever truly trusted was my sister," I say softly.

Her eyes look up from my arm and then she glances at Evan.

"No, not even him," I say. "Not really. Not in the same way. Besides, I share him with his sister so he's not really just mine."

Helena looks slightly intrigued by that bit of information. She bends her head back down, opens the packaging on the syringe and efficiently inserts the needle into my vien and draws a vial of blood. "And where is his sister?" she asks.

"Right now Anna's with her parents. They recently became the owners of a new…" I pause a moment and look like I'm carefully choosing my word. "...acquisition. She wanted to be there for a bit to help out."

Helena removes the needle from my arm and presses the rubbing alcohol pad firmly against it. "Hold this," she says.

I do and she caps the syringe and vial and places both her purse. "Perhaps you'll be around here long enough to learn to trust me," she says.

I smile slightly at her and tilt my head. "Perhaps."

She smiles back at me and touches my face. "You still really miss your sister, don't you? Even after all of these years."

"I miss her every day, and I've never gotten over wanting someone to pay for her death."

Helena stands and nods slightly at me, but gives me nothing else with regards to Derek or an auction. Still, that slight nod is more than I got in Club Equinox last night.

"I need to be going," she says, "But my driver and I will pick you up tonight at eleven o'clock."

"Eleven o'clock," I repeat. I stand and get back into a harsher character. "It's best I finish taking care of this before housekeeping shows up," I say while gesturing casually to Clyde.

Helena laughs lightly. "Yes. That's probably a wise choice. Leave him home tonight, though."

Another test, to see if I'm really up for going in with her alone. "Of course. I'd never bring him anywhere without an invitation," I say.

I walk her to the door and open it. She reaches up and kisses my cheek before she walks out. "Until tonight, Irina. Thank you for brunch. Next time it will be my treat."

"I'm looking forward to it."

I watch her with a smile on my face until she gets into the elevator and the doors close. I close the suite door and turn to look at Clyde, who pops his head up, clearly desperate for release.

I put my finger over my lips and point to Helena's large hair clip that she left on the end table. I nearly roll my eyes at such a ridiculous move; I'm quite sure there's a bug in there somewhere and we're being listened to right now.

Still maintaining my accent and avoiding looking at his lap, I walk towards Clyde quickly and get down on my knees to quietly undo the straps around his ankles. "Did you hear that, Pet? I have a playdate tonight. I wonder if she can really help me get what I want. I hope so. It's strange, but I do trust her. There's just something about her that I can't put my finger on, and I haven't really felt in a long time. A podklyucheniye." _Connection._

I pause a moment and then say, "Now, what to do with you? You have permission to speak. Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes, Inamorata," he whines. _Mistress_ , essentially, but Italian instead of Russian. I wonder why he's using the term and can only guess it's because Russian is really not my strongest language; I can understand most of it and pull off the accent, but I'd stumble through a one-on-one conversation. He's assuming Helena's testing of me is going to continue, and I might need to improvise with my language skills to deflect suspicion.

I move to undo his wrists. "And the next time I'm whipping you and tell you not to make a sound, you'll remember to follow my orders, won't you?"

"Yes, Inamorata," he says again.

I reach for a small towel that's on the bar and hand it to him.

"Good, Pet. You've been like this for quite a long time, so I'll give you permission to make all the noise you want now."

I reach for the intricate release on the gold ring that's around his painfully throbbing flesh. I don't fumble. His moan is instant, loud and agonized. I quickly turn away from him to give him a moment of privacy. When his moans subside and then quiet about thirty seconds later, I turn back around.

Our game over, I address him by name and only look at his face, soothing him. "That feels better, doesn't it? Go take a shower, Evan, and then come rest with me. I'm sure you could use a nap, and I can as well. I'll need my energy for tonight."

I watch Clyde walk into his bedroom, towel fisted in his hand, his face a mask of stoicism. I hear him open his bathroom door and the shower start.

I walk to the end table and carefully pick up Helena's hair clip, holding my breath so not even the slightest sound can be heard. It's a great design, expensive and custom made, but I know what I'm looking for, and I find the miniscule bug right in the springs of the clip.

I smirk. I used to love it when other people's surveillance only lead to solidifying my cover. _Pity the fool_ , I think.

Any planning we have to do for tonight can take place in Garcia's hotel room downstairs. I'll play my role of getting ready in this room so Helena can hear. And tonight, when she and her driver pick me up, I'll return the hair clip like I would to anyone who left something at my place.

* * *

 _August 10, 2015  
Inferno, East London_

Inferno is nearly the same as I remember it from 2004, but I'm looking at it with different eyes now. Back then, I had fuzzy memories retold by Sam in therapy sessions; in the past year, I've had more vivid stories and some pictures.

In 2004, the pictures that lined the wall of the main bar were only pictures of people in costume who were willingly playing a role. I know better now. That's probably what most of these pictures are, but right above the bartender's head, I see a picture of a man that resembles very closely the image of a man up for auction that Sam showed me back in February.

Clyde was almost annoyingly mother-henish before I left tonight. _Play to your strengths, Emily. Remember you have more strengths than anyone you'll encounter. Don't drink from any bottle that Helena isn't drinking from. If you have to lose sight of your glass at any point, never drink from it again. Remember that the pills you're taking won't block all the effects of cocaine if you take in too much. Remember how to hold the straw just right so you can gather most of the dust in your hands instead of your nose. You remember how to disperse the dust even if you're naked, don't you?_

I was almost thankful when it was time to get out of hotel and join Helena in her chauffeured car. I know Clyde was only trying to protect me, but by the time eleven p.m. rolled around, I felt like my head was going to explode, and I hadn't even gotten started yet.

I was still annoyed, but trying to hide it on the drive here. Helena was seemingly grateful when I handed her back her hair clip.

When we got to the club and I pulled off my trench coat to reveal my costume for the night, I fully became Irina. I'm in the black boots from last night, but very differently dressed. The tight leather underwear I'm wearing are not overly-revealing; as I told Clyde, I no longer have the ass of a thirty year old and I don't need to advertise that fact before I get in the door. No, these underwear are pretty much granny-panties in leather. However, they lace on the sides and are held together with very thin leather straps. My bodice laces the same way, up the front, but it doesn't meet in the middle of my chest. There's about a three inch gap there, and my nipples are one wrong twist away from coming out to greet anyone I meet with a friendly hello.

I actually look damn good even though I'm three tugs of thin leather ties away from being completely naked.

Helena sticks close to me. She orders an expensive vodka martini from the bar, and I do the same. I watch to make sure our drinks are made from the same bottles and keep my hand protectively on my glass once I receive it.

We stay down in the main bar for a bit, and two men approach us. Helena greets them with smiles and kisses. "Irina," she says to me, "This is Dmitri and Ryan."

 _Dmitri. Predictable,_ I think as I smile at them and introduce myself.

It's no surprise at all to me when he speaks to me in Russian. " _Helena has told us all about you. I am very pleased to see her description does not disappoint. In fact, it doesn't do you justice."_

I smile at Dmitri and send a silent shout out to the heavens for Clyde Easter and his diligence.

"Siete molto piacevole per gli occhi, e io sono felice di conoscerti, ma è meglio per tutti di capire quello che stiamo dicendo, non credi?" I reply.

Dmitri raises his eyebrows in bewilderment and I laugh. "I just told you in Italian that you're quite pleasing to the eyes as well, but isn't it better that everyone can understand what we're saying? I can say the same sentence in Spanish, Arabic and French, as well as Russian, of course. My business dealings have taken me all over the world."

Dmitri stares at me and smiles slightly, but Helena laughs. She kisses my cheek and grabs my hand. "Let's go to our private room upstairs, my friends. The show's about to start" she says.

There's a man tied to a chain that's attached to the ceiling in our private room. He's got a hood over his head, and that's the extent of his clothing. There are whips and flogs and various other toys around the room. The lighting is surprisingly bright and there's a large window overlooking the stage a floor below us.

I gravitate towards that window as the show begins downstairs. Helena approaches me with a glass tray and a line of cocaine on it. I smile at her in appreciation, and just like I practiced so many times with Clyde and Sean McCallister so many years ago, I snort a line without really getting much at all in my system. I inhale forcefully with one nostril blocked, but I inhale from my mouth, not my nose. I slide the straw and cup it at the end. I let the dust fall into the palm of my hand, then grab the straw with the other hand and place it back on the tray. It's all done in one fluid motion that looks more like a dance than deception.

It's hot in this room, and there's already a fine layer of sweat on my hairline. When I feel a body press against my back and Dmitri whispers in my ear, "It's a good show, isn't it? But we could make a better one in here," I lean more fully against him. I laugh. "Let's," I say. I casually run most of the cocaine through my sweaty scalp while Dmitri, Ryan and Helena are already caught up in the idea of what's to come.

Helena looks at me. "You first," she says, nodding to the anonymous man tied up in the room. "I always like to pick up new techniques."

Ryan already has his hand unzipping Helena's one-piece corset. I select the bullwhip since it's what I have the most recent practice with. I swallow past my gag reflex and grin appreciatively at the restrained flesh in front of me.

I'm struggling inside, but I glance at Helena, who is now naked, along with an equally naked Dmitri and Ryan, on the couch across from me. Their hands run over her body, but I see it. Right where I have a small patch of bleached pubic hair, Helena is completely hairless. But there's a tattoo there, horns in a bed of roses.

This isn't lunacy and I'm on the right path. I have three days, and it's the first time I really believe with any sort of genuine certainty that I'll have Derek safely with me soon.

" _I'm not sure where I'd rather be right now,"_ I say in Russian as I look at the hands on Helena's body.

Dmitri laughs. " _You can trade places soon."_

I crack the whip against the man tied up in front of me with deliberate conviction. The first time the leather blazes a heated path across the man's skin, Helena smiles at me.

* * *

 _August 11, 2015  
King's Suite, Corinthian Hotel, London_

It's four o'clock in the morning when Helena and her driver drop me back at the hotel. I kiss her goodbye, thank her gratefully for the evening and walk confidently away from her car and into the lobby, hoping my trench coat hides my shaking knees. I spent very many hours as Irina and I'm coming out of that cover and feeling it now.

When I make it up the elevator and into our suite, both Clyde and Penelope are waiting up for me. I don't collapse or break down, even though I feel like it.

"Are you okay?" Penelope asks.

I laugh at such an innocent question because it's either that or cry. "Yes." I look at Clyde. "We've both been invited to a private residence tomorrow night."

Clyde ignores my statement. "How many?" he asks.

I glance at Garcia and Clyde pipes up, "She's totally in this with us now. How many, Emily? You know the rules - you tell the story as soon as you can so you don't get lost. I've only once ever let an agent get away without doing that. That was you with Doyle. And where did you end up?"

Anger surges in me despite my exhaustion, but I answer. "Four. Helena, two male friends and one sub."

"Did they hurt you?" he asks.

I'm not sure how to answer. No, not physically, not deliberately, not really. They wouldn't have tried because of my persona. But I went whole hog into the situation once I saw Helena's tattoo. I followed her lead, and she seemed game for anything, so I was, too. My throat is raw and my jaw is aching, I feel like a bulldozer drove a path between my legs, there are fluids dripping out of me and pooling into a sweaty piece of leather right now. But, I'll be fine.

I shake my head at Clyde to say they didn't hurt me. Then I say the important news, the only thing I'll really care about after I clean up and get a little sleep. "It's horns in a bed of fourteen roses, one for each of the children every year, I think. We're definitely on the right path. We have three days, and I have no doubt that I'll be at Derek's auction."

I don't tell him how exactly I know the details of the tattoo, how up close and personal I got with Helena to glean that information. I look at both Clyde and Penelope. "I'm absolutely fine," I say fiercely. "I'm going to take a shower and get some sleep."

I feel their eyes on my back as I head into my bedroom.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N - I'm really a very normal, relatively boring, vanilla person. Really._

* * *

 _August 14, 2015 - 10:00am_  
 _Location Unknown_

I hate pills. You never know what you're really getting and they're nearly impossible to hide while taking them when you're naked or when someone is watching you closely. Right now I'm naked with Helena's face right in front of mine, and I'm also tied up, so I swallow the pill she puts in my mouth that she says will help take the edge off, and I tell her thank you.

The type of undercover work I used to do for Interpol was a delicate balance between becoming someone else so completely that I wouldn't get caught while still maintaining a grip on myself. The only time I ever was not able to maintain that balance was with Ian Doyle. The first two months with him was all a convincing acting job, but after that I really did start having feelings for Doyle. Clyde knew it; he knew it before they even pulled me by watching me on surveillance feeds. It's the reason why, a couple of months later, as he watched me disintegrate into my Lauren persona so completely, he went over Sean McCallister's head and yanked me out of there abruptly.

I didn't snap out of it quickly, and Clyde knew that as well. I was still thinking of myself as Lauren Reynolds for weeks afterward, and I refused to talk to anyone about it. It was a role reversal - I was trying to do a good job of pretending to be Emily Prentiss so Clyde and Sean would leave me alone. What finally snapped me out of it was when I faked Declan's death, when that sweet little boy hugged me after I pretended to kill him and asked if he was going to get to live with me now. What brought me back to reality, and replaced any romantic feelings Lauren had for Ian Doyle with the healthy fear Emily Prentiss should have for that man was when I told Declan, "No." When I turned Declan over into Tom Kohler's care, I walked away from the house feeling like Emily.

One very lost and scared Emily.

When I finally made it to the BAU and into Hotch's office, thanks to Clyde's help, I'd regained a little of my footing, but it was a struggle every day. I'd have to wake up in the mornings and give myself a pep talk in my mirror. _You're Emily Prentiss. You're thirty-six years old. You're an FBI agent. You were never Lauren. You were never Katarina. You were never Elaine, Sylvia, Jessica…"_

Those pep talks lasted the first year I was with the team, and slowly tapered off. By the time 2010 rolled around, they were a distant memory I never even thought of anymore. That is, right up until the time Sean made contact with me and told me Ian Doyle was loose. Then those pep talks were back with a vengeance. I had to say those words to my reflection several times a day.

When I came back from Paris, when Doyle was dead, my pep talks changed. My subconscious filtered in and added words to the script. _You're Emily Prentiss. You're forty-one years old. You lied to the only group of people who ever truly cared about you when you were being yourself. It will never be the same again.  
_

Those pep talks never tapered off, so when Clyde mentioned London Interpol, it wasn't a difficult decision to make. I didn't believe I'd ever really find my footing again with the BAU and it broke my heart everyday, and I wanted to leave.

I'm thinking of those pep talks again now because my arms and legs are spread wide and held firmly in place, my arms attached to chains in the ceiling and my ankles attached firmly to hooks in the floor. I can't be Emily right now, not at all, if I have any hope of being convincing. _You are Irina Popov. You're forty-four years old. Your sister was killed when the FBI was chasing her. You want revenge. You are willing to submit to whatever the head of Helena's family wants in order to buy an FBI agent who is going up for auction tonight._

The past three days have been a whirlwind of sex that escalated in degrees of perversion; some scenes so horrific that I'm finding it nearly impossible to even blink my eyes because they're all I see. Like last night, for instance, when I saw a teenage girl at one of the private residences Helena took me to. Her innocent body was in the middle of a group, her glassy eyes clearly drugged, participating in something I'm sure would have been difficult for my adult body to handle. I wanted to pull my badge and gun right then, I wanted to kill them all and gather that girl in my arms and never let her go, but I maintained my cover.

The first night Helena picked up both Clyde and I to take us to a private residence, she ran a wand over our bodies. "I trust you Irina, but these are the rules."

Once she determined that Clyde and I were not wired, she asked for our phones. She shut them down, removed the batteries and placed them in a steel box. Then she asked us to put hoods over heads. We drove for about forty minutes, and only when we were inside the house did she tell us it was okay to remove the hoods.

That night was both very different and very similar to the night before. It was a home, not a club. There were maybe twenty people there, some as young as Sam, but no one younger than that. There wasn't a window looking out over a stage, but there was a one-way window looking into the room Helena brought us. Dmitri and Ryan were back, and I remember feeling thankful that it didn't look like I'd be introduced to anyone new that night. There wasn't a stranger tied up in the room with us; this time it was Clyde. He got a front-row seat to a repeat performance of the night before, and he got worked over pretty good himself, but they were gentler with him than they were to the man the night before. I think in deference to me.

I remember looking at the window in the room, the window that on our side looked like a mirror. I think there were several sets of eyes watching me that night, assessing me, trying to find any nuance that might make them think I wasn't exactly who I said I was.

It was the reason I said to Helena when she was flogging Clyde, "My pet can handle more than that," and why I faked the orgasm of my life while I was with Dmitri and watched Helena hit Clyde harder.

Helena, Dmitri and Ryan had amazing stamina because they were hopped up on cocaine and who knew what else. I didn't have that luxury, and we couldn't just leave. We were at Helena's mercy, and it was that moment that I fully comprehended just what it was going to mean to be tested by these people, and those tests were going to be a fast-track series of submissions on my part. Helena was in charge, and she knew it. She knew she was the path to the FBI agent I wanted.

At around three o'clock in the morning, when I barely felt like I could walk and Helena's energy seemed to be winding down, when she looked at me and said, "Take pity on your pet, Irina. Finish him off," I smiled slyly at her and did as I was told.

Clyde is more of an amazing individual than I previously gave him credit for; he didn't let a moment of awkwardness pass between us. After we were back at our hotel and we checked in with Penelope - Penelope whose eyes just keep getting wider and more deeply concerned about me - after we showered, Clyde came into my bedroom. He laid his tired, beaten, worn-out body down on my bed. He put his arms around me and whispered in my ear, "This isn't you. I won't let you get lost again, Emily."

He had reason to be concerned. This wasn't an assignment with gradual infiltration. I was Emily Prentiss six days ago, and now I feel more like Irina. I have to in order to get through this. But I listened to his whispered words and clung to him until sleep found me that night. I didn't cry, and I didn't feel sick. Irina Popov would not be emotional or nauseous; Irina would be getting more and more exhilarated at the prospect of getting what she wants.

The next night, I was taken to a private residence again, a different one. It was the same process, being swiped for any tracking or recording devices, handing over my phone, hood on my head. Clyde was not invited. Dmitri and Ryan were also not there. I was brought into a room with a man who was about the same size and shape as Derek Morgan. Again there was a one-way mirror for people to observe me. Helena said to me, "Get him tied up for us."

That man was not truly submissive; that man was a test - a test to see if I could handle someone like Derek Morgan. He fought me hard, but I did not spend my first year with Interpol in brutal martial arts classes for nothing; I did not spend countless hours with Morgan at the gym practicing take-down drills for nothing. I never managed to take Derek down, unless he let me. But this man, for all his strength, did not have the finesse or skills of Derek Morgan.

The man was stunned when, ten minutes later, I had him on his stomach, my knee pressed into his back while I wrapped a leather strap around his wrists.

Helena came in the room at the point, laughing and clapping. She kissed the bruise that was already forming on my cheek from one good punch the man got in. "You've gotten a couple of my brothers very excited," she said.

At that point two men came into the room, and I made very close, personal acquaintance with two of Helena's "brothers." I was not told their names, but they both had the tattoo.

The next morning - yesterday morning - Helena called around eleven o'clock and asked if I'd like to go for a walk. I disconnected with her, and I put on my Emily mask for a moment, let Garcia set up her computer so that it looked like my work cell phone was routing from DC, and put a call into the office - an office I was really only a handful of miles away from. I checked in with the agent who was in charge in my absence.

Then I became Irina again and met Helena downstairs. We ended up at a park; it was a lovely day in London with the sun shining, and the park was crowded with happy people.

With birds tweeting in the trees, and childish laughter filtering through the air, on a park bench, Helena said, "Tonight, the head of my family wants to observe you. Just you. Evan will have to stay home. Just do what you've been doing, and then tomorrow morning, I'll pick you up and you can have a private meeting with him. You'll need to give him what he wants, and if you meet with his approval, I've been given permission to let you accompany to a place I know you want to be tomorrow night."

Heart racing, I turned to look at her. I ran my fingers down her cheek. "Thank you," I whispered. "Never did I think when I left Moscow that I would come to London and find someone like you. I haven't felt anything like this since Katarina died. I never thought I'd feel like this again."

Helena smiled, her eyes shining. She's a narcissist; she thinks she rules her world, which actually makes her vulnerable to manipulation. Her "family" is a cult. A cult of sociopaths who have been brainwashed into believing that what they are doing is right and that innocent people are theirs for the taking. She has absolutely no clue just how she's being played right now.

Irina almost felt sorry for her in that moment, but not Emily - she was still there inside me, fighting for Derek Morgan.

Helena took my hand in hers. "Do you have access to the cash you'll need?"

Irina laughed. "It's not a problem."

"You can't bring him back to a hotel."

Irina nodded. "Today, I'll have Evan help me find an isolated place to rent."

"There are many people who are interested in him. Provided you are able to buy him you'll need to stay in town for a few months. My family will want to check in on you from time to time to see your progress. You have to understand that we need to be sure he'll never escape. It's life with you, or you give him back to us, or you kill him," she said softly and seriously.

Irina didn't even blink. "I am no stranger to the delicacy of situations such as these, Helena, and I do understand." Inside, Emily was dying. We should have anticipated this - there's going to be no making Derek disappear right away.

"Will you share him?" Helena asked.

"Perhaps, after a while. I want to completely break him first. But when I am willing to share him, rest assured that you will be the first one I do so with."

Helena smiled again, leaned over and kissed my cheek. "I can't wait," she whispered in my ear...

I never saw anyone closely observing me last night. I never saw any young children, just one female and one male teenager who might have been able to pass for eighteen, but I knew they weren't. I saw Irina's two "brothers," along with another woman who had the tattoo. The young people nearly did me in, and I inhaled deeply through my nose when I was presented with cocaine. I stayed Irina and played my part and did well.

When I returned to the hotel last night and told Clyde and Penelope what had happened, Penelope just stared at me in a way she hadn't before.

"What?" I asked her when my story was done.

"You haven't stopped speaking with your accent yet."

I waved her off like it was no big deal, but Clyde followed me right into my bedroom and into my bathroom. "I'm not going to put a stop to this, Emily."

"I'll rip your balls off if you try. I'm twenty-four hours away from getting him," I responded without my accent.

"I'm very concerned, Em," he said.

For the first time since that initial night with Helena at Inferno, I felt tears prick my eyes. "There were minors there, Clyde. I have to stay in character or I'm going to slice all of their throats and take pleasure in doing so."

"I know," he whispered. "I know, Emily. No more of this for you ever again after this case is over. EVER again. I don't care who the criminal is or who goes missing. No more. Promise me."

I stared at him him. It's not a promise that I can keep. I'd do this for him and I'd do this for any member of the BAU. It's how I'm wired. He conceded that I wasn't going to answer him and left me in the bathroom so I could shower. I scrubbed my skin nearly raw last night.

When Helena picked me up this morning, she held my hand while I sat next to her with a hood over my head. "You can handle this, I know you can. No one has ever made it this far in such a short time."

She reassured me on the thirty minute drive, and I nodded my head, but I'm not so sure about being able to handle this right now.

The door opens. A man walks in - the man Clyde and I both assume is The Minotaur. He's wearing a black hood with the eyes cut out and horns on the top. His bare chest is an intricate maze of over a hundred tattooed roses. He walks towards me while Helena steps away from me and goes to sit in the corner of the room. He picks up a riding crop.

 _I am Irina Popov. I am Irina Popov._ I chant in mind with my head bowed. I chant it louder in my mind as he steps towards me and runs his fingers from my chin, down the valley of my chest to my hip bone. _I AM IRINA POPOV_ I scream inside, and that wakes me up.

This is another test, and I _am_ Irina Popov. I am here to get what I want, but Irina Popov is not submissive. Irina Popov is here for only one reason, and it's not to bow my head to Helena's master. I raise my head and look straight into his black eyes through the holes in his hood. I keep my eyes on his and use every ounce of power I have in me to force myself not to make a sound as the crop whistles through the air and lands across my stomach.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Helena smile.

* * *

 _August 14, 2015_  
 _Location Unknown_

I've seen pictures of slave auctions before, drawings in history books. It's probably why I was expecting a wooden stage and people in the audience bidding on me when I imagined this day in my mind. That's the exact opposite of what I get. There is a stage here, but it's shiny, clean and black; it is well lit with a light that shines on the subject being auctioned off.

In front of the stage is not a live audience; there are one-way mirrors; on my side, I see my reflection in thirty six windows that overlook the stage, three stories of twelve windows.

I'm not sure how long I've been gone. Day and night have no meaning to me anymore. I've been allowed to eat, use the bathroom and walk around in my anterior chamber on occasion. There's always someone guarding me with a gun, sometimes two people. Two or three days ago, they switched me from injected drugs to pills. I think they're Valium. My head is a little clearer, but I still sleep most of the time.

Yesterday - I think - I was chained back up and a hood was thrown over my head. I was placed in a vehicle and we drove for a long time. Hours and hours. Then we arrived here, wherever here is, and I was allowed to take a shower, finally. I was well beyond ripe at that point. Thug A stood with a gun pointed at me and told me to wash myself well and then to shave.

I was given food and another pill. And then I was lead backstage, naked and in chains again. There were two other people in chains; one man and one woman. The woman was called first. She was shaking and there were tears dripping down her face. I could see her from my seat on the side of the stage. She kept her blonde head bowed. The first bid was for ten thousand dollars, and it went up to two-hundred twenty thousand before the bidding stopped and a winner was declared.

I fought through the fogginess in my head and tried to profile my predicament as the Asian man next to me was brought onto the stage with an armed guard. He, too, was shaking, but not crying. He kept his head bowed. I recalled Thug A and Thug B discussing days ago the people who were clamoring to get the cash in order to buy me and break me.

I'm trying to decide if it would be better for me to go out on the stage looking frightened and somewhat already broken, or if it would be better to be looking slightly defiant. There are pros and cons to either, but ultimately, I feel my best chance for survival is with a person who makes a large investment.

Heart hammering and decision made, I watch the Asian man go for one-hundred-sixty thousand dollars. Thug A puts the gun to my back and tells me to get up on the stage.

I walk, my head held high, and I turn to face the mirrors. I keep my head raised and stare contemptuously at the mirrors in front of me.

My bidding starts at one-hundred-thousand. Red lights flash above the mirrors when someone bids. I raise my chin slightly as my bidding goes up. I don't shake and I don't blink even though I'm scared to death.

The lights are numerous and flash rapidly. Two hundred, three hundred, four hundred… up and up my price goes. We hit two million dollars and there are only two red lights flashing now. Thug A is laughing quietly and gleefully behind me, probably thinking of his cut.

The last red light flashes at two million, eight-hundred thousand dollars. The second red light, one row up and two to the left does not flash again.

I'm sold.

I'm whisked off the stage. I am unchained and given clothes to put on, my running clothes again, and again they've been freshly laundered. I'm chained back up, a hood is placed over my head, and I'm led to a car.

Thug A sits next to me with the gun on my ribs and we wait a long time.

Finally, I hear the door open. A woman with a British accent says, "My turn, Robert. Go on back inside and collect your cut. I'll take care of getting them home. Tell our brother I said hello. It looked like he might have made a huge mess, but it's worked out for all of us in the end."

Thug A - Robert - moves and I can smell perfume through the cotton covering my face. The woman sits next to me and a gun is placed against my side again. There's more movement and I can feel an additional body get into the car.

"You did it, Irina," says the British woman after the car door closes. "Just sit tight now. I'll have you back to your place in two hours and in about an hour you can take off your hood."

"Thank you, Helena. I can hardly believe it. I'll never be able to repay you."

The accent is thick. It is Russian. And I've heard this voice speaking Russian before. I've also heard it speaking Spanish and Italian. I've heard it laugh and I've heard it cry. I've heard it apologizing and I've heard it moaning and sighing. I've heard it scared, but not often. I've heard it angry and fierce and kind and loving.

It's a voice I won't ever forget, and though I'm scared my mind is playing tricks on me and I can't believe it's true, my body finally starts shaking, a combination of blind fear and extreme hope. I swallow past a lump in my throat and feel tears burn in my eyes. I don't say a word.

"He's shaking like a leaf," says the British accent joyfully. "Not like how he was on the stage. His defiance probably cost you a million dollars at least."

I feel the body next to me shift slightly, and I hear what sounds like kissing, and a sigh and a moan. Then, "No matter. Fear is much more fun to play with. I can't wait to start with him tonight. I'm fairly shaking in excitement myself."

Says Emily Prentiss. I'm sure of it now.


	8. Chapter 8

_August 14, 2015  
Theydon Garnon, Essex, UK_

Making the leap between Interpol and the BAU was challenging for me back in 2006. I had to work hard to hide my background and my frustration - a frustration that stemmed from having to re-learn how to be a profiler on the outside looking in.

The first year, and even occasionally after that, there were several situations where I just wanted to say to Hotch, "Send me in undercover!" It was the reason I nearly died laughing on the inside when Hotch asked me if I was really okay going into a bar to get first-hand experience with some slimy schmuck who was training men how to win the attention and affections of women. I played it off with some joke about having first dates worse that that, but inside, I was thinking, _Hotch, man, you don't even know._

If you are convincing, if you do your job well and absorb your persona fully and make it on the inside, there's nothing better than the profile you can acquire from watching a suspect in his or her element. Add in the ability to watch that person with his or her alpha, and you can glean more information in a one-hour interaction than you can in hundreds of collective hours of questioning and investigation.

My "meeting" with The Minotaur lasted just a little over an hour. The first thirty minutes, I was just Irina, being strong and as silent as I could be through the absolute torture I was being put through. I've been shot, branded, impaled with a wooden stake, and I've had the complete crap beaten out of me on several occasions throughout my career, but nothing even came close to comparing to my time tied up in that room with some fucking psychotic asshole while Helena looked on. To say he had incredible, pin-point aim with a whip was putting it mildly.

I could feel a languidness in my limbs, from the pill Helena had given me. Maybe it was taking the edge off, but not by much. When my body became almost numb to the pain because there was just so much - far too much for me to consider or differentiate between, I started watching Helena out of the corner of my eye.

Her smiles were partially for me and how well I was doing, but they were also for the man torturing me. Her eyes glimmered and she seemed more excited by the fact that through each escalation of brutality he seemed to be gaining more respect for me. His grunts became less about exertion and more about disbelief.

She'd brought me to him. _She_ wanted to please _him._

That started changing my profile and my tactics in my mind.

When The Minotaur was done with me, I was a sweaty mess of welts and bruises, and there were a couple of areas where the skin was broken slightly and my sweat stung as it seeped into those open wounds. But I never bowed my head, and I never screamed. All I could think about was the fact that there were children - _young children -_ who had likely been on the receiving end of his demented cruelty. The numbness and detachment that had settled over me in order to become Irina was replaced with the familiar anger of one very pissed off Emily.

"Help her down and get her into the office," said the breathless, accented voice when he was finished. Eastern European, for sure.

He left the room, and Helena came to release me, her hands gentle against my body, desperate, joyful kisses on my face. "Unbelievable," she whispered to me. "Incredible," she murmured as she delicately kissed my lips.

In that moment, I almost lost sight of my goal. I wanted to grab her and pound her head into the concrete as soon as she released my arms. But I gathered myself and managed a small smile.

When I was completely freed from my bindings, I asked for some water and Helena brought me a glass. I asked if I could use the bathroom and she nodded. I gathered my clothing and walked on shaky legs to the restroom she directed me to. She waited on the other side of the door.

I was nearly delirious with pain at that point. I took a few moments to splash cold water on my face, and run my fingers through my sweaty head. I surveyed my torso in the mirror, but kept my face impassive. The red welts and bruises centered from my breasts down to my upper thighs; it was the same on my back. It was deliberate - they wanted me to be able to cover them with clothing for tonight. I glanced at the bra in my hand and couldn't even imagine putting it against my skin, but I did it, again with an impassive look on my face. There was a very real possibility I was on camera.

After I dressed and exited the bathroom, Helena ushered me slowly to an office. Still in his horned hood, The Minotaur pushed a laptop towards me and said gruffly, "Show us how you're going to pay for it."

With confidence, my tired arms started typing, using every memorized bit of data Garcia and Clyde had thrown my way. I successfully logged into a Swiss bank account with just over three million dollars in it and I turned the laptop back around.

The disgusting man in front of me nodded in satisfaction. Helena could hardly contain her glee. She stood up, not to bestow any affection upon me, but to bestow it on the hooded man in front of me. "I told you," she whispered to him.

He gruffly pushed her away, but it was that exchange that solidified my plan in my mind. Helena might be brainwashed, she might be a sociopath, but her desire to please someone in charge was to my advantage. I needed her to start questioning where her loyalties lay, and I needed her to start considering me as someone in charge. Once I had Derek back, it would be time to turn the tables.

That she was infatuated with me was not in question. She'd said it several times, how it had never been so good. It was nearly comical; aside from a couple of very PG-13 encounters in college that did nothing for me, and one interlude at Inferno in 2004, my experience with women was non-existent. I'm a hell of an actress, apparently. I needed to start upping my ante and change her infatuation into obedience.

Before we got up to leave, I brazenly pulled the laptop towards me without asking first. I logged out of my account, deleted the history and the cache and any cookies on his web browser. It wasn't full proof, but it was the best I could do. Garcia would see that this account was accessed, and she'd be smart enough to change the password as soon as I logged out. I looked in The Minotaur's eyes frequently while I did so. "Just making sure I leave nothing behind. You can understand the need for privacy," I said confidently even though I could feel my body on the cusp of shock from the pain I was in.

I actually received what might have been a small nod of appreciation. I also received a wide stare from Helena, like she couldn't believe I'd do anything as bold as touch his computer without his permission.

Helena didn't take me home after that. Home was no longer a hotel, but a rented, gated estate in Theydon Garnon. Garcia had found it online right after I got back from my time in the park with Helena the day before. She showed me three possibilities of private estates within an hour of London, and I quickly chose the one with the indoor pool. Several years back, when Derek was going through a particularly flirtatious period with me that left me feeling a little disoriented, he'd gone off on a bragging streak for a few days. He'd enter my personal space, his smile growing wider the more flustered I got, and mutter things like, " _If a thousand sit ups doesn't impress you, what does, Prentiss? Two hundred pull-ups? Three hundred push-ups? Hey, I can hold my breath for three minutes under water. How about that?"_

I saw the pool in the picture of the estate in Theydon Gamon and immediately thought of those days. There are many ways to break a person, and it does not need to be physical pain. Clyde rented the house for a month, under Evan Greenfield, and we rented a car.

But Helena wasn't driving me back there now. I wasn't going to get the opportunity to discuss my altered plans with Clyde and Garcia before I showed up with Derek - Clyde and Garcia, who were frantically trying to put together all the supplies we thought we'd need to pull this off. I consoled my absence with the fact that this was Clyde Easter, and he was the master of improvisation. He'd follow my lead without missing a beat when the time came.

With a hood back over my head, Helena and I ended up at what I assumed was her home. She played nursemaid, and I let her, even though the blood that was coursing through me still wanted to kill her. Her place was surprisingly small, but nice and well-decorated.

It was Helena who iced my battered body and cleaned my open wounds. She let me call Evan to let him know I wouldn't be home until much later that night. "I trust that everything's ready?" I asked Clyde over the phone.

"It will be just as you ordered," said Clyde as Evan.

Helena let me borrow the dress that I wore tonight at the auction. She also gave me the feathered Venetian mask to wear over my eyes because that was customary for an "exhilarating, private event" such as this. It was Helena who put a hood over my head again, six hours later, after I'd rested and showered and dressed, and had her driver take us to Derek's auction.

She held my hand while we mingled in a room with around sixty other masked individuals. There was a sense of celebration and formality in the air. There was expensive champagne and delicacies to eat.

There was a man there in a mask who smiled at me at one point. He didn't hide his slightly gap-toothed front teeth or give a small, half smile like I'd been doing all evening. I knew him, I was fairly certain. Eric Clarke, an analyst for London Interpol in our cyber crimes unit, a man who may have been on the fringes of operations such as these, but would have had access to details if he dug deep enough. His smile gave me a small sense of comfort: No one knew I was here. It meant Hotch and the team were doing their job with my images during video conferences with Peter Daniels, and it meant Clyde and Garcia had covered our tracks, particularly the financial ones, well. With the blue eyes peeking through my mask, my red hair and my collagen-enhanced lips, Eric gave no indication that he recognized me at all.

I now knew why our previous investigations had gone nowhere.

I ignored the pain in my body, the welts and bruises and cuts carefully concealed by the dress Helena selected for me. I was getting so close and anticipation was overriding my discomfort. She lead me up a flight of stairs and into a small, private room. She showed me the button to push when I wanted to bid. And I waited, with a quickly thrumming heart, as the blond woman and the Asian man was brought on stage and sold.

When Derek walked onto the stage, my first instinct was to cry in relief and joy, but I bit it back. I hid a smile on my lips behind a cough in my arm - he looked a little thinner than I remembered him, but actually looked untouched, not a bruise on his body. However, my smile was because of Derek's obvious defiance and calm exterior. He'd thought about this and determined his best chances lay with the highest bidder.

Which meant he was still right there with me. With _us._ And not lost at all.

But it wasn't his defiance that cost me 2.8 million dollars, like Helena assumed or just said for my benefit. It was because I was being played. The Minotaur had seen that Swiss bank account and knew what I had to work with. I hadn't seen him that evening, but once the bidding hit 1.5 million and there were only two of us left bidding on Derek, I was pretty sure it was The Minotaur, or an appointee, driving up their take. With my purchase complete, with the rental of the estate, our hotel bill and all of our supplies, our well of Interpol money had very nearly run dry.

I didn't care. I just wanted Derek Morgan in my possession and safe.

I stayed calm going through the process of transferring funds from my Swiss account to another one. I was handed a "care sheet" for Derek that informed me he had a subdermal GPS microchip inserted in his body, and it gave a number for me to call should he ever go missing. It detailed the drugs he'd been given. I was given a bottle of Valium, told when his last dose was, and was cautioned against pulling him off cold turkey. Then I was ushered, hood over my head, to a car.

It killed me that I couldn't even see him, to make sure he was actually there. But when Helena leaned over and broke the rules, lifting my hood to passionately kiss me, I caught a glimpse of his knee, and that was all I needed.

* * *

As I settle in for the two-hour drive in front of us, I'm thinking about how to take back some control with Helena. If she was willing to break the rules at all for me, by lifting my hood to kiss me, it means she's open to breaking more rules, if I play it just right. She prattles along on our drive and I respond accordingly, but what I'm thinking about is the chains on Derek's body, clothing that had been outside of his possession, and a skimpy, sequined dress and shoes borrowed from Helena.

I'm thinking about an entirely different plan than Clyde and I had laid out the day before, when we were considering Derek's arrival. That plan included strapping Derek down to a table in a room Clyde and Penelope were tasked with outfitting to certain specifications, satisfying Helena or whomever drove us home that Derek was secure, and then getting that person the hell out of the house. That isn't going to work.

An hour into our drive, Helena reaches over and removes my hood, and I can see him again, hood over his head, but right there in front of me. An overwhelming and unfamiliar need to curl myself against him and stay permanently attached to him makes my heart race; seeing him there makes every minute of the past few days worth it. Just the sight of him, sitting silently in a hood, makes me grasp firmly onto the Emily inside of me, when Irina has been playing such a prominent role for so many days.

"What is your plan with him?" Helena asks me.

I consider everything I'd asked Clyde and Penelope to set up in order to create a fake little house of horrors for Derek. Given the fact that I trust they got it all done in the fourteen hours I've been gone today, the fact that Clyde reacts well on a dime, the fact that I'm pretty sure Derek's chains and clothing and my dress are probably littered with listening devices, and the fact I know Derek Morgan and know he could hear me and mentally prepare, I answer, "Water. At least at first."

Helena raises her eyebrows.

"You'll see. When you get me home, I'll show you. Water is one of my most favorite techniques." _Please know it's me, Derek,_ I silently say in my mind.

Helena opens her mouth to ask more questions, but I shake my head at her. I put my finger over my lips and then glance at Derek. I reach forward and run my fingers over her knees and then up and under her skirt. "The best gift is a surprise," I whisper.

She grins and we make the rest of the drive in silence. I permit her driver to enter the gates at the estate by telling him the code. She hands me back my phone and I invite her to accompany me and Derek into the house.

"Evan!" I shout when we are in the entryway. I stow my phone, the care sheet and Derek's pills in the closet in the foyer.

Clyde is there in an instant, dressed normally, but his head slightly bowed.

"Look at me, Pet. I need your assistance. I have who I wanted because Helena helped me. Tell Helena 'thank you.'"

"Thank you, Helena," responds Clyde dutifully.

I grin wryly. "Stay here a moment with Helena, Evan. I'll be right back."

I quickly walk up the stairs, down a long hallway, and open the door to a room that contains the monitors for the security cameras this house came equipped with. "Gun" I mouth to Garcia, who is crying in front of the entry-way monitor, her finger on Derek's black and white image standing there.

She points to a locker on the floor. I select a handgun, though apparently when Clyde and I agreed we'd might need weapons at some point for the next phase of this plan, he decided to cover all of our bases. We could launch an attack against a small army with what's in that locker.

With a reassuring smile and a quick shoulder squeeze for Garcia, I exit the room, shut the door behind me and make my way back to the foyer. "That's better," I say to Helena. She glances at the gun in her hand and the gun in mine. It's a moment of equalization for her, where we both are carrying the power and the hardware. And I plan to push it further.

"Would you like to see the first stage of my plan, my lovely Helena?" I ask while running the pointer finger of my free hand over her chest.

Flattery wins her over, and she smiles immediately, nodding her head.

"You've set up what I asked, haven't you, Evan?"

"Yes," he says dutifully.

"All of it?" I ask harshly.

"Yes," he says again.

"Then let's go to the pool room."

Clyde grabs the chains on Derek's body and starts leading the way. Helena and I follow, side by side, me with the gun pressed against Derek's back, down the hall beyond the expansive kitchen and to the glass doors that separate the house from the large, indoor pool. We enter the humid room and there's a chain sitting in front of the deep end that's attached to a pulley system and a large bolt and hook in the steel beam that cuts above the pool.

"Hmm," Helena says neutrally, but I can tell she's impressed and curious.

I smile coyly at her. "It's simply a matter of having experience with this sort of thing. And having Evan, who will do as I ask without making a mistake. You've done exceptionally well, Evan."

Helena looks up at the bolt in the beam. "The estate owners?" she asks.

"By the time we're ready to leave this place, it will look like we've never been here. Don't worry, Helena. I need the keys to his chains."

Helena reaches into her jacket pocket and hands me the keys. I toss them to Clyde. "Unhook his wrists. Then get him strung up, Pet."

Derek struggles a bit. "What are you doing?" he asks in a panicked voice.

I pull his hood off and get right in his face, gun held against his temple. "You are not permitted to speak!"

He looks down and stops moving, his eyes searching his surroundings. There is no recognition in his eyes for my face, which lets me know that he recognized my voice already and I'm not a surprise to him. He's playing his part by questioning me. He glances at Clyde and there's just the briefest look of surprise, but he covers it almost instantly. I keep the gun aimed at his head while Clyde unshackles his wrists and fits him with a weighted harness before chaining him up again. Clyde then takes the chain on the ground and hooks it to the back of the harness.

The whole time I keep a satisfied smile on my face, and I keep my eyes mostly on Helena's, whose eyes are watching Derek with fascination as Clyde starts winding the chain and Derek is pulled into the air. He swings a bit as the chain pulls him off the pool deck and sways over the deep end of the pool.

The swaying slows to a stop, and Derek struggles with his bindings. "No!" he screams. "What the hell are you doing?"

"DROP HIM!" I yell to Clyde, who releases the chain instantly, plunging Derek into the water.

Any listening devices on Derek's body concealed by water, I throw back my head and laugh like a lunatic. Then I face Helena head on.

I strip her dress off my body while she watches in curiosity. Her eyes open wide and she gasps slightly when I toss the dress in the pool. I pull off the underwear I'm wearing as well and toss them in, followed by her shoes I borrowed. I wait until they all start sinking then step towards her and bring my lips to her ear. "Anymore ears on me, Helena?" I whisper.

I pull back to look her in the eye, I see the pulse racing on her neck. She glances at the chain going into the pool and says, "Only on him." She's lying; I'm sure there's something on my phone that's tucked away in the closet right now as well, but I smile at her like I believe her.

Mentally I'm counting. Derek has been under for just about a minute and a half.

"Pull him up!" I shout to Clyde.

Up, up Derek rises until his coughing, sputtering mouth breaks the surface and then the rest of his body appears. Once he catches his breath, he starts struggling and screaming again. Clyde raises him back to the ceiling, and I see Derek's eyes land on my beaten body, see a masked flash of pain on his face.

"I did not give you permission to look at me!" I yell at him. "Drop him again," I shout to Clyde.

Again, I watch Derek plunge into the water and turned back to Helena. I place my hand on her cheek. "I do not want to get you into trouble, milaya moya. It's the very last thing I want. But I have played by your rules and trusted you blindly, and now I need you to trust me. I value my privacy and I will not have people listening to me. I paid for him, he is my prize and my revenge, and I'll handle him how I see fit without anyone listening in."

I lean forward and kissed her stunned lips. "Will this get you in trouble?" I ask quietly.

Helena doesn't respond for several seconds, but then she shakes her head. "I can handle it, Irina. And I do trust you, just as you trust me."

"I can't tell you how happy that makes me, Helena. Truly. You have become so special to me. Once I've done what I need to with him," I say as I nod my head towards the water, "I'm thinking perhaps I can send Evan to his sister for a bit and you and I might be able to enjoy some private time with each other. You can come to Russia or perhaps my Villa in France. We could have a lovely time."

Helena smiles at that and I walk to the wall and grab a robe off the hook. I put it over my body before turning to look at the water, where Derek's body is sitting, weighed down on the bottom of the pool. "Pull him up!" I shout at Clyde.

Again, I watch as Derek coughs and gasps for air when his head breaks the surface. "The best is when you start pulling them up and they think relief is coming, but you keep them just below the surface," I smile as I speak to Helena.

She nods, her eyes wide on Derek's struggling body. She looks a little frightened, which I didn't think I'd get this soon. But it's good; I want her to have a healthy fear of me.

"Now, come. I would like some privacy with my new purchase. I will miss you after seeing you every day for the past several days, but give me forty-eight hours, and then you can come visit and check on my progress. Will that work for your family?" My voice is dripping with a combination of conviction and care. It's crucial she still sees me as a person who enjoys her and wants her. "My bedroom here is quite impressive," I say. "I'll show it to you when you come back."

She smiles at that and I take her hand in mine. I walk her to the front door, kiss her lovingly goodbye and watch as she gets into her car. I stand there until the gate opens, her car drives through, and the gate closes again.

"Change the code," I say to Garcia via the camera in foyer, and then I run back to the pool.

I put my finger over my lips and look at Derek, who nods at me. Already the tears are building right behind my eyes. I nod at Clyde and he gently lowers Derek to the water, keeping the chain taut so his body is resting above the surface. I put the gun on a chair and grab the pool safety hook off the wall, throw it over Derek's body and drag him to the edge. Clyde helps me pull him out of the water.

With shaking fingers, I unlock his shackles and let them slide silently into the water. I get the harness off him, and then his shirt, which I also throw in the water. Clyde stands automatically and goes to retrieve another robe and I pull Derek to a standing position. I help get the robe over his body and he knows what's going on now, completely. He kicks off his shoes and then pulls his shorts and briefs off from under the robe, watching for a few seconds before they float to the bottom of the pool.

He catches his breath and looks at me with glassy, drug-fogged eyes. "You almost had me fooled with that act. I thought you'd gone to the dark side," he says with slightly slurred words and a little smile, and that does me in. I start crying, every bit of fear and relief in me rushing to the surface and colliding in a cacophony of tears.

"Your body, Emily," his voice is broken, scared and shocked.

I shake my head at him. "I'm fine. You're here and you're safe now and I'm fine. Did they touch you?"

He blinks and glances at Clyde. He knows what I'm really asking, not if they hit them but if they in any way sexually violated him. He shakes his head. "No," he breaths out. "How did you find me? What have you done?" His voice cracks.

I wrap my arms around him. "I'll tell you the whole story tomorrow. I didn't do anything I wouldn't do again in an instant if it meant getting you back. But we're not through this yet. For tonight, though, you're going to rest and know you're safe."

He wraps his arms gently around me, barely touching my injured back. "Emily," he whispers in my ear. "I can't believe it."

I glance over his shoulder, where Penelope Garcia is a veritable basket case in the doorway. "There's someone here who desperately wants to see you, I think."

He turns and sees Garcia there, Garcia who still looks mostly like herself, just with different hair and no glasses. She rushes towards him and I step back, but Derek won't let me go. He keeps my hand in his and hugs Garcia firmly with his other arm. And that is his breaking point, his shock wearing off and reality washing over him. His body starts shaking and I watch the impenetrable, strong, kind eyes of Derek Morgan fill with tears.

We lead him to a bedroom and Derek lays gratefully on the bed. I sit in a chair next to the bed and Garcia sits next to him on the edge of the mattress. She rubs his chafed wrists gently and tries to control her tears.

Clyde stands in the doorway for a minute, concern for me in his eyes; he'd seen my body, too. But I smile gratefully at him and shake my head, letting him know I'm okay. He walks away quietly, giving us some privacy. This win belongs to all of us, but he has no real relationship with Derek at all. I need to talk with him, we have to plan, but I've bought us a forty-eight hour reprieve from this situation, and just for tonight, we're all going to sleep.

I look at Derek's eyes that he's struggling to keep open. "Did you make contact with Hotch?" I ask Garcia.

She shakes her head and sniffles. "Not yet. I'll go do that now. He'll want to know what's next."

Derek's eyes snap open to look at me and I want to say "not tonight" but I can tell by his face that he already knows. He knows this is far from over. He recognized my voice and had two hours sitting silent and chained in a car to contemplate what all this might mean.

"Next we go after Ari and the people in charge of this," he says, his eyes locked on mine, his words still slurred, and his body drooping in exhaustion.

I nod slightly. I don't add the part about thirteen other children. I don't need to lump anything on to the nightmares tonight. There's no real getting out of this, unless we send Garcia back to DC and Derek and I disappear until someone else brings down The Minotaur, which isn't likely. It's something I'm actually willing to do, going into absolute hiding with Derek to spare him what's to come in the next couple of weeks, but I know he'll never go for it. There's not a chance in hell.

Garcia stands and leaves the room to contact Hotch after placing a kiss on Derek's cheek. "I'll be back soon," she says.

When she leaves the room, he looks at me. "How in the hell is she in the middle of this?"

I reach my hand out and touch his cheek, then place his hand between both of mine. "Not tonight, okay? We could both use some good rest. Tomorrow."

"Emily, your body," he whispers again. "What did they do to you?"

But I shake my head and squeeze his hand. "It's nothing. Really. I had to prove myself to get to the auction tonight, and this is how their group works. I knew it was coming. I barely made a sound when it was happening," I say with a slight smile, but my tears are starting up again at the intent look he's giving me and I feel them drip down my face.

He sits up in bed and faces me. He leans forward and runs his hands through my red hair and then his fingers over my larger lips. He brushes the tears from my cheeks before he takes both of my hands in his and kisses the back of my right hand. Then he lays back down, keeping his fingers linked with mine.

Tomorrow we'll start weaning him off of Valium and he'll hear the entirety of this mess. He's going to be horrified, and pissed off at me for doing what I did and grateful and ashamed and devastated at the same time. But for now, he can hardly keep his eyes open and I'm not far behind him.

"Can you stay in here?" he asks. There's still a little fear in his voice; he's been clamping back on his emotions for days as well.

"One of us will be in here tonight in case you wake up. For now, I'll stay. I'll stay until you fall asleep."

"Thank you," he whispers.

"Always," I respond.

He smiles slightly as his eyes slip shut.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N - I started and scrapped and restarted this one a few times. I know it's only been a couple of days, but it still feels like a delay for this particular chapter...so sorry! ;-)_

* * *

 _August 15, 2015_  
 _Theydon Garnon, Essex, UK_

There's no sensation of waking up and not knowing exactly where I am, not even the briefest moment of a sleep-soaked pleasantness and disorientation. I'm asleep and then I am suddenly awake with my heart thumping fast and hard in my chest, like nightmares have just barely eluded me all night.

I spent a week thinking that when my auction came around and I was sold, I would be beaten and tortured and likely raped; I mentally prepared myself for that inevitability. I hoped that the team would find me, but that seemed impossible after they flew me to Europe. Still, when I allowed myself the tiniest sliver of hope of rescue, I saw Hotch, Reid, Rossi and JJ barreling into where I was being held.

Never did I think of this - of Emily and Clyde Easter, and, inexplicably, Penelope Garcia.

I take a breath and slow my heart and blink around the room I'm in. I have a vague recollection of Garcia gently shaking me awake and giving me half a Valium in the middle of the night, explaining that I couldn't just stop cold turkey, but the bed was decadent after a week on a concrete floor and I slept soundly all night besides that.

The sun is bursting into the room right now, and I'm groggy, but not nearly as disoriented as I have been this past week. I become aware of a sensation on my hand, a warmth and softness. I turn my head slightly on the pillow, glance down near my hip, and see Emily there, her hand on top of mine, still in the chair but in comfortable clothing - loose sweats and a baggy sweatshirt - very unlike Emily. Then I consider what I remember from a brief glimpse of her body last night, of the redness and bruises, and realize anything fitting would probably be very uncomfortable.

She's slouched forward and her head is resting on the edge of the bed, her face turned towards mine, and she is sound asleep. I take her in while I have the chance in a moment of calm. Her lips are different, which I'm assuming is temporary, her hair and eyebrows dyed, but everything else about her is the same. She's as beautiful to me now as she was the day I watched her get on a plane to London, and that realization surprises me.

We weren't on the best terms the two occasions we saw each other after she left for London. I went with Penelope to visit reluctantly because I was still hurt and sad that Emily had actually followed through and left. Then, when Emily flew out to help find JJ, I was embarrassed about how I behaved in London, and a little uncertain of how to act around her. I was dating Savannah by then, and I pretty much avoided any one-on-one time with her.

That hurt and embarrassment and uncertainty seems like another lifetime given the current situation. Unbelievably and without thought for her own well-being or safety, she'd managed to find me somehow and be my purchaser.

I've been in this line of work long enough to know that Emily didn't just subject herself to a beating and then waltz into my auction. I heard that woman - Helena - the entire drive to this place. She and Emily are obviously familiar with each other, and Emily is deep undercover. I just don't know how bad it is; I can't even contemplate how to feel about what she probably did to get to me.

I move my hand slightly and she wakes instantly. "Are you okay?" she asks, softly but slightly panicked.

I smile. "I'm fine, just awake. Please tell me you slept in a bed last night."

She sits up and grimaces slightly as she moves her body into a sitting position, but then smiles at me. "Yes, much of the night. I came in here around five in the morning so Garcia could get some sleep." She glances at a clock on the wall. "It's eight o'clock now. Hungry?"

I'm starving, but if the rest of the house is asleep, I'd rather have a moment of privacy to get to at least the reality of what she's been through.

"Tell me," I say quietly but firmly. Just two words, but she knows what I want - not all the details of the case yet, but the details of her part.

She looks down for a second and then back up at me. She hedges. "I'm undercover as Irina Popov. I tried to go in with these people once before in 2004, and I went back in as that woman's sister when an informant handed me a picture of you a week ago. I know Daniels is involved. I flew to New York, met with the team, called Clyde, laid out the plan, and they wanted to send Garcia. She wanted to come. She's saved our asses on the computer end and I'm not sure I would have gotten to you if it wasn't for her."

I watch her pause and glance away from me. I squeeze her hand. " _Tell me._ "

She takes a breath and turns back towards me. There is no shame, no embarrassment, no regret and, frighteningly, no emotion. She looks me right in the eye and lays the horror on me in a detached monotone.

"I've been in a private BDSM club and in private residences. I've had sex multiple times with four men and two women, one of whom is Helena. I witnessed teenagers at one of those residences, but I was not forced to participate with them. I did have to watch, and I did have to pretend to enjoy what I was seeing because I was being observed and tested. I haven't seen any young children yet. I've let it be known that pedophilia, incest and purchasing people for the pleasure of breaking them and torturing them is something I'm comfortable with and find pleasure in. Clyde is my submissive partner, and he went to the club with me the second night we were all in London together, but nowhere else. I've whipped the shit out of him a couple of times, as have other people. At about this time yesterday morning, I was invited to meet with who Helena calls the head of her family, who we believe is a man who calls himself The Minotaur. He tied me up and beat me and tortured me with various instruments for a about forty minutes, until he determined I was worthy of attending your auction."

I blink quickly a few times but don't break eye contact. I feel like I might throw up. There's a part of me that wants to cry and a part of me that is so angry that she put herself through hell for me. And I want to kill everyone involved in this with my bare hands. "Sex?" I finally ask.

She shrugs and acts unconcerned. "It wasn't gentle, if that's what you're asking. It was rough and with at least two people at once, often three. It was far from enjoyable, often uncomfortable and sometimes painful. But I knew what I was getting into. I never hesitated."

Anger wins. It's her detachment and flat tone that are getting to me more than anything. I feel like I'm having a sudden rush of some form of post-traumatic stress disorder; I've heard this detached monotone from her before and it never got her or me or any of us anywhere, except to some eery psychological plane of confusion and discomfort. _It's not that big of a deal, Morgan. I was in undercover, inside with Doyle. I was extracted. I got Declan and got him out of there. I hid him. I got myself together and joined the BAU. It was fine until Doyle escaped. I went after him so he would come after you all. I didn't do my job and I had to hide for six months. Doyle's dead now and it's over. End of story.  
_

I reach out and pinch her arm, not hard, but enough.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Just making sure you still feel anything."

Her face flashes in anger, and I'm fine with that. At least it's an emotion. She keeps her voice low, but there's fury there, too. "You know I do, and you also know what it's like going undercover. You were in for what? Well over a year? Don't tell me you didn't have to turn yourself off in order to get through that, and please don't try to tell me that you didn't sleep with women you'd prefer not to as part of keeping up with your cover."

"That was different," I say automatically.

"Why? Because I'm a woman?" she hisses.

I sit up in bed and hiss right back. "No. Don't go there. Don't you forget that you know me and I have the utmost respect for what you can accomplish. It's different because when I slept with women when I was undercover, I was never in a position of vulnerability. You could have gotten so hurt. They could have figured you out and they would have made you disappear, too."

She softens a bit and nods her head. "I know, but they didn't, and I got you back. You would have done the same if it was anyone on the team who had gone missing and you knew how to get inside and get them back."

She's right, I would have. I take both her hands in mine. "And you. I would have done it for you, too."

"And I would have wanted to scream at you for doing that to yourself for me, and I would have had a hard time forgiving myself for what you went through on my behalf, no matter how thankful I was."

I laugh quietly even though this is no laughing matter. There's no emotional guidebook for this situation. "At least we still have that in common. Our emotions always have been pretty parallel." I pause and think, _most of the time; in work situations but not in personal matters._

She's looking at me and seems to be keeping pace with my thoughts because her cheeks flush, but not in anger this time. Slight embarrassment. Her eyes moisten, but no tears fall. She stands gingerly and clears her throat. "Come on. Let's go get some food and then we can go over everything we know and talk about what's next. Here are some clothes." She grabs a folded pair of sweats and a t-shirt from the edge of the bed. "I'll send Clyde out today to get you some underwear. I'll wait for you in the hall."

I'm going to let this go for now, but I imagine as more details emerge, my emotions are going to be a push and pull of mellowing and then slamming into me out of nowhere.

The clothing still has tags on it, which I remove, and it's a little small. I think this is probably something Easter bought for himself. I quickly pull the articles on my body and meet her in the hallway. I take in the expansive house we're in as we walk. We pass one door that's open and I see a bed that's been slept in and a robe thrown over the end of it; I assume that's where Emily slept last night. I pass two massive bathrooms. Four other doors are closed upstairs, but I don't look inside. We can go on a tour later.

Once we get to the kitchen, I'm ravenous. I've eaten the past week, but not much. The kitchen is well stocked, which surprises me. "Penelope must have done it yesterday," Emily says when she sees me peering inside the massive fridge.

I pull out a gallon of milk and pour myself a tall glass while Emily pulls out eggs and sausage. She finds some bread in the pantry and returns to search for a couple of pans. She seems to be under the impression that she's going to cook for me. The thing is, every time she turns or reaches for something, I see her wince or cringe and then try to hide it.

I put my hand on her shoulder and take the pan out of her hand, setting it on the counter. "Are you sure you don't have a broken rib?" I ask softly.

She nods. "Pretty sure. Clyde checked me out last night after you fell asleep. I'm just very bruised and sore. I'm going to put riding crops and nipple clamps in the category of _Shit I'd prefer never to see again_."

She smirks, but I can see she knows that the joke falls short before the words totally leave her mouth. I tighten my jaw and I want to put my fist through a wall, but instead I run fingers over her cheek. "Emily," I sigh.

She pulls away from me. "It's okay. _I'm_ okay. Today is probably going to be the worst day in terms of being sore."

"Until the next time they want you to prove yourself," I reply gruffly.

She glances at me and that glance says it all: It's likely going to be me who's the next one on the receiving end of the brutality before this case is over. I nod at her once to let her know I understand and take the pan and the eggs to the stove. "You sit, you talk, I'll cook."

* * *

Clyde and Penelope wander into the kitchen just as I'm getting Derek completely caught up on the details of this case and where we stand. They're hardly details to be discussing while eating eggs and sausage, but I barely ate the day before and Derek's been on severely limited calories for a week. We manage, both the realities and the food.

I've got to hand it to him, he's not flinching, but he's also not fooling me. His anger is just barely being contained, for what I've done and for the kids who are missing; his jaw twitches and he's forcing himself to calm down.

Clyde sits and reaches for the bottle of ibuprofen in front of me before he reaches for food. "Headache," he says.

I raise my eyebrow at him. Clyde Easter's idea of pain medicine includes biting down on a leather belt while stitching himself up.

"What?" he asks. "It's not like it's been particularly stress-free the past week." He turns to look at Morgan. "How are you feeling?"

"Ok. A little groggy and I've been informed I'll need to take another half a Valium soon." Derek stands and puts his hand out to Clyde. "I didn't get to thank you last night."

Clyde stands and shakes his hand. "You're most welcome."

Again, I raise my eyebrows. I was half expecting something along the lines of "Your turn to be the whipping boy," and a smug smile, which would have been much more Clyde-like than this respectful and normal exchange.

I make my face impassive before either see me and take a sip my coffee instead. I watch Derek reach over and run his hand down the side of Penelope's head in greeting.

Derek sits back down and says, "Daniels wanted Ari all along. He selected Ari long before Ari was taken. The first two boys were just pawns in his game, to make it look like a serial rapist/murderer on the loose, because Daniels was hunting in his own backyard. And if what you're telling me is correct, about Sam being snatched off the streets when he was nine, and about Ari being taken from his family, and about Ari being one of the special or chosen ones who sell for the most because he's completely untouched and innocent…"

I break in at that point with a nod and say, "Each year there is one female and one male child who is hand-selected for that role, and not always by the same people. It's worldwide, and those children are the only ones who cause a blip on the radar, but no one would pick up on it if one year a male child was taken from Brooklyn, but the next year a male child was taken from Turkey."

"And the rest of the kids are probably street kids, kids people don't search too hard for, or kids who no one knows are missing," says Clyde grimly.

Penelope stands up and excuses herself for a moment and the rest of us eat and contemplate. She returns a minute later with a rolled up paper in her hand. She unrolls it on the table. It's a diagram I haven't seen before, which means she probably did it yesterday. There's a circle in the middle with "The Minotaur" written in the middle of it.

There are fourteen lines that shoot off from that circle. "Helena - British Accent" is written on one of them, "Daniels - Brooklyn/DC" is on another. Then there is "Unknown Male - Italian?" "Unknown Male - British" and "Unknown Female - German?"

These are the people with tattoos I'd encountered the past few days. Other facts are listed on the paper.

"Emily," Garcia says, "You say most of these people appear in their early forties?

I nod. "Except The Minotaur. I'd guess he's slightly older, but I didn't see his face. And his accent was Eastern European, I'm fairly sure. And Eric Clarke is missing from that chart."

Clyde whips his head towards me, recognizing the name, and I nod. "I'm pretty sure he was there last night. Eric Clarke. I didn't see any tattoo, but I'll take an educated guess that he has one. He's French. He was hired before I returned to Interpol. He's a technical analyst in Cyber Crimes, and that's likely why our recent investigations never went far."

"That fucking little gap-toothed bastard," says Clyde. "He was hired in 2009 or 2010."

Penelope writes his name on the sheet and we all stare at it.

"There were at least sixty people there last night, though," I say.

"Trusted buyers, people who wouldn't talk, but not all of them in the inner ring," Derek says.

"Probably," I say, thinking of Dmitri and Ryan.

"I was thinking," Penelope says. "What if there are fourteen people with the tattoos; fourteen people who provide the children. Different people provide the two pure children, and I say that loosely, because all children are pure. But if that was the case and this is worldwide, it would be almost impossible to pick up on. Let's say you're Helena. Your turn would only come around once every seven years. People wouldn't connect the cases."

We look at her.

"It's plausible," says Derek. "But there are so many unknowns. Can you search and find some possible connections?"

Penelope shakes her head. "Not from here, not safely. If I could have, I would have by now. We were laying really low until we had you. I have bells and whistles on everything out there that involves Emily and Irina, and these people probably have the same. If we start searching now, it might throw up red flags. I don't have the setup here to do that safely."

Derek stands and looks at the sheet, then he looks at me. "You said you'd been with four men. There's only two on here besides Eric Clarke."

I blink and look down. "Dmitri and Ryan. They don't have tattoos."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

I look up and stare at him. "I would know," I say simply. And I watch his jaw clench again.

He takes his plate from the table and brings it to the sink, his moves angry. I've seen Derek Morgan investigating cases with outlets, people he could interview, crime scenes he could investigate, and, when all else fails and he needs to sort through things, miles to run. I've told him he has a GPS microchip in him at the moment, and he knows he's currently stuck here.

He storms out of the kitchen and I stare at Penelope and Clyde. "He's taken in a lot and he's only been awake for a little over an hour," I say softly.

I watch Penelope nod sadly. Clyde slides his gaze from mine and looks at Penelope. "You say you can't access information safely from here, but can you elsewhere?"

She tilts her head. "If I was in my office at work, yes. I'd feel reasonably safe that I could get in and search without being caught."

"Can someone else do it for you? From your office?" I ask.

She considers that. "I could walk one of the team through it, but I'd have to be on the phone with them, and I don't feel comfortable doing that from here. I just don't know what kind of monitoring they're doing on this place."

I turn to Clyde. "Take her somewhere safe? Let her make the calls and let's find some connections."

Clyde and Penelope both nod and stand. Penelope runs upstairs to grab her laptop and burn phone and then I watch them leave through the kitchen, into the garage door that leads to our rental car.

I stand and choose to give Derek a little more time by doing the dishes first. After, I look around the first floor and then walk up the stairs. I find him in the room Clyde and Garcia set up; Derek's little torture chamber. He's standing at a table of whips and cuffs and all sorts of toys for me to supposedly use on him.

He must hear me in the doorway because he turns, a leather whip in his hand. "Hey, Prentiss. Got a whip?" he asks me with little mirth in his voice.

I give him a half smile, remembering that case, the last time he asked me that, so many years ago. "I told Helena that I'm not willing to share you until I know you're mine. No one else will touch you besides me, Derek."

"Is that better?" he asks with his eyebrows raised.

My immediate thought is that it is better, but I'm not so sure in that moment. I shake my head, "I'm not sure. I think so, yes, in the end, it will be better. At least you'll know I don't mean it or like it or want to. Derek, we've been kind of strapped in here. We haven't been able to investigate the way we normally would, and we haven't been able to run fingerprints or DNA the way we'd like, even though we've had both."

He steps towards me. "DN...?" And then he glances down my body. I see his jaw clench again at the realization that I've been having unprotected sex with so many people. His jaw doesn't unclench. He puts his hands on my shoulders and opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but nothing comes out.

"I'm going for a swim," he says finally. He releases me, drops the whip on the ground and walks out the door.

I let him go. I'm feeling shaken right now. His touches on my body are foreign to me at this point. It's been over three years since he's physically touched me at all, aside from a couple of short, perfunctory hugs.

I thought once we got him back, this would stop feeling like such a nightmare, but it seems to be getting worse because I never fully considered what it would be like to contend with his emotions once he was with me physically. I guessed what he'd feel, but I never contemplated what it would be like to watch him absorbing the reality of this.

I stare around the room, at everything Clyde and Penelope set up, from the straps on the wall to the chains and whips and various other instruments on the table. The idea of using any of it on Derek makes me feel ill, but we're here now and this is what we have to deal with. I dawdle upstairs for a good hour, and then decide that's long enough.

I go in Derek's bedroom and grab a half pill of Valium; he needs another dose. And then I see in my mind his body possibly seizing from withdrawal while he's swimming, so I make my way quickly down the stairs and to the pool room.

I stop short in the doorway. I've seen Derek Morgan swimming on several occasions through the years, when we were on a case and staying at a hotel with a pool, when he needed to work through things. He is graceful in the water, and fast. I've watched him several times before, but I've never watched him naked. Not that I can see much more than I would if he had a swimsuit on because he's moving so quickly and his wake and slight splashes are covering most of the view.

I gingerly sit on one of the chairs in the room and do a piss poor job of averting my eyes, and then get angry at myself for watching. But I still watch him swim lap after lap for several minutes. He finally stops, grabbing the wall and staring at me while I sit there.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he says.

I blush. The heat rises in my cheeks and I have no hope of stopping it. He laughs quietly and puts his hands on the edge of the pool to haul himself out. I quickly look away. It's not long before he's standing in front of my face, a towel wrapped around his waist.

I look up at him. He grabs my hand and pulls me gently to a standing position. He touches my cheek. "I like that after everything you've told me today, something like me saying that still makes you blush. It means you're not too far gone. I'm serious, though. We're probably going to be seeing a lot of each other in the buff in the next couple of weeks, and as I was swimming I thought about how we could hold onto ourselves. I need to see, Emily. I need to see you as Emily, not as Irina. I just need to know everything that happened to you... _you_ , not Irina, and absorb it so we can move forward before the next phase of all of this."

"You…" I pause and lick my lips and clear my throat. "You saw last night," I manage to say.

"Just a flash. I want to know exactly what's happened to you this week, and I want to know it all, not just for me, but for you, too. I want you to know that I can handle this, and that it doesn't change who you are at the core of yourself. I want you to be able to look me in the eye and know that, to me, you're still Emily Prentiss."

I roll my eyes slightly, trying to deflect his words. "Your power of processing a situation while you exercise is profound," I mutter.

He gives me a half smile and I stare at him for a good thirty seconds while he patiently stands there and waits. Maybe he's right. I don't know. The last time Derek Morgan knew who _I_ thought was Emily Prentiss was nearly five years ago, before Doyle escaped.

Finally, I give in. I turn and lift my sweatshirt up so he can see my back from my waist to my shoulder blades. I don't hear him gasp. I don't hear him make any sounds at all. But I am aware when his cool, slightly damp hands trace a path across my back, so gently it doesn't hurt at all.

My tears come at that soft touch. I both despise and love how much this man knows me. I expected to have to walk him stoically through the next couple of weeks, but he's going to walk me through this as much as I'm going to be there for him.

It's an entirely fucked-up backdrop in which to find a clean slate between the two of us, but that's what it feels like.

I'm not sure if either of us are going to end up standing tall at the end of this. I don't know how intact we could possibly be, but for now I'll let the broken person inside me that I've been trying to hide come out and give him what he says he needs.

I don't object when he places his hands on my shoulders and turns me gently around. I don't object when he lifts the front of my sweatshirt. I stare at his face when he lifts the sweatshirt over my breasts and I watch his eyes as they take in the mottled bruises of my breasts and nipples.

I watch a tear leak slowly out of his eye and cascade down his face. Then he softly pulls my sweatshirt down again. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and pulls me towards him until my forehead is resting against his chest. I feel the vibrations of his vocal cords as he speaks.

"You're not undercover in this moment, so please don't turn yourself off. The last time you did that with me, I watched you nearly die, I thought I _did_ watch you die. And maybe I did, in a way, because when you came back, it was never the same. I know we haven't talked in forever, and I know I was a giant asshole in a lot of ways when I visited in London. I know I never answered your emails after that, and I know I avoided you when you came to help JJ. I got hopeful and then I got hurt all in the span of about two hours after JJ and Will's wedding, and I picked up my toys and went home. I'm the last person who is due any favors from you, but if you could try to keep yourself mentally and emotionally here with me when we're not having to pretend to be other people, I think I can get through this better. And, I think, maybe, you can, too."

I gasp through my tears as I absorb his words and he just stands there, still, waiting for me. After a minute, I reach my hands up and place them on his waist, really touching his skin for the first time in what feels like forever. I watch as the tears drip from my eyes and land on his skin. I nod against his chest. "I'll try," I whisper.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N - I'm not sure why this one feels more graphic than the other chapters - maybe because it's more Demily oriented, at least the first part. But here's a warning for anyone who randomly is finding this story - tread lightly and turn away if BDSM and M-rated stories are not your thing.  
_

* * *

 _August 16, 2015  
_ _Theydon Garnon, Essex, UK_

I can't see anything; the silk blindfold is tied so tightly that not even the barest hint of light can seep through. My body is in a kneeling position on a bench designed just for this purpose, my knees and arms strapped down in stirrups and my chest resting on the padded top. There's a ball gag in my mouth, a collar with a chain attached to my neck and my lower extremities throb because of the ring attached tightly at the base of my penis. My back is sore because of the stunning blows Emily delivered with tears in her eyes earlier this morning.

 _This is so messed up._

The worst part is that this is nothing compared to what things could possibly look like once Helena arrives, or what it might look like a few days from now, or a week from now.

Last night the beginnings of my reality hit me, as we all stood around my little torture chamber and discussed strategies for Helena's visit the next day, about what it was going to take to sell Helena on the fact that Irina was doing a good job, and keep Helena swaying towards Irina's side when it came to trust and loyalty. I fought through some serious levels of embarrassment as Clyde and Penelope tossed ideas around, concluding that whatever Clyde had been through, or that other man at Emily's first night at the Inferno, my situation at least needed to portray itself as far worse than that. This wasn't a roll-playing game with submissive partners: Irina Popov was trying to break and humiliate the FBI agent she purchased.

Emily seemed to sense that having a discussion about positions in which to place my body and which devices to use was not something I wanted to be doing with such a wide audience.

"Why don't you let Derek and I discuss this and you two can go start dinner." she said.

They agreed quickly, both with apologetic glances thrown at me, Clyde closing the door behind him.

I tried to diffuse my feelings of awkwardness by making a joke. I rifled through one of the bags of things Clyde had purchased and picked up a cone shaped piece of silicone with what looked like a tail attached to the end. I knew what it was; I'd never seen one in person, but I knew the intent. Inserted anally, it would look like the wearer had a tail. "Fucking seriously?" I asked Emily with a smirk.

She grinned and touched my arm and made a bit of a face, wrinkling her nose. "It's what happens when you send Clyde Easter shopping with vague instructions of being 'well equipped' without a specific list," she said lightly. "We can get rid of it. We won't need it."

It was all very clinical and methodical after that when we were discussing the plan, like the two of us might have discussed a crime scene in the past, except we weren't trying to analyze what had already happened, we were trying to set the stage. And I needed to look like the victim.

"I'm thinking the bench," Emily said. "It's a far more submissive and vulnerable position. And then I can elude to the fact that I've been using..." she trailed off and gestured to a harness and a wide array of dildos in various shapes and sizes, some I couldn't even imagine fitting inside anyone.

I glanced down and blushed and she touched my arm again, and then placed her cool hand on my very warm cheek. She smiled gently, but remained focused. "The sooner we have this planned, the sooner we can get out of this room. We need to adjust the height of the bench. Hop on."

"Damn," I muttered. I really couldn't believe this was happening, not that I was any less focused, both on our end goal of rescuing those kids and taking down these people, but also the goal of staying Derek and Emily as much as possible. I was naive yesterday morning, thinking I was going to be the strong one for Emily; we're both going to be walking that tightrope for each other.

I turned and got my knees up in the stirrups, rested my chest over the padded bench, and placed my elbows in the arm stirrups. I was acutely aware when Emily came to stand behind me and put her hand on my hip gently urging me into more of kneeling position. She measured the height adjustments necessary and I just tried to concentrate on anything except her body leaning against my ass.

We lowered the table a few inches, finished our plans, then did something as absurdly regular as eat dinner.

It was all a lot to take in, and I struggled mightily to find sleep last night as my head tried to wrap itself around the idea of being completely vulnerable, something I'd never allowed myself when it came to sex since I reached adulthood, but also not really vulnerable at all since it was all pretend and it didn't really feel like vulnerability with someone I trusted as much as Emily.

Sleep must have been hard for her to find, too, because she appeared in my bedroom doorway a little after midnight with a bag of M&Ms and a deck of cards. "Feel up to a little poker?" she asked.

By the time she left my room a couple of hours later after thoroughly kicking my ass at poker, we were both feeling normal enough to get some sleep.

Today dragged. I was both dreading what was coming and wanting to get it over with at the same time. When this evening finally rolled around and Emily left me in my little torture chamber to get myself ready so that all she needed to do was strap me in and blindfold and gag me, I couldn't. I tried. I truly tried to think up any erotic image I could find in my mind to help things along, but every time I tried, I saw Emily that one night in her bed after JJ's wedding, and then seconds later, I saw her the same way, completely open and spread out on her bed, but the smile on her face replaced by fear, with slash marks and bruises all over her torso, and nameless, unknown faces surrounding her body.

It wasn't exactly erotic mind-fodder that was going to get any blood flowing below my waist.

 _Yeah, what the fuck is right,_ I kept thinking.

Fifteen minutes before Helena was scheduled to arrive, Emily tapped on the door. "You ready?" she asked in a totally normal voice, and then opened the door.

I quickly turned my body away from her so only my backside was showing. I hung my head slightly and shook it. I was embarrassed that I was unable to do my part when she'd already been through so much, and the clock was ticking.

Her voice was soft, not disappointed or frustrated at all. "I understand," she said. "It's not easy. I had to use a lot of lubricant before I went anywhere with Helena, excusing myself to the bathroom right before we went into a room together, just so I could hope to pass myself off as aroused."

I was aware that she was stepping closer to me because her voice was only about a foot away when she said, "Derek, if I could do this on my own so you wouldn't have to go through any of this, I would. I'm sorry I can't."

I shook my head again at her words, unable to speak. I didn't know what to say. I knew I didn't want her in alone, or even with Clyde. I wanted to be the one to have her back, even if I was tied down much of the time. It wasn't her physical well-being I was so much worried about; it was her emotions. I wanted to be there to pick up the pieces when needed, so I needed to be there and see and hear everything. I was just afraid a carefully constructed dam was going to break inside me if this all went too far and I was going to have to deal with things I'd long ago buried. But we didn't have time to talk about it at that moment.

I became hypersensitive when her body was pressed up against my back. I felt some clothing and her skin. A lot of Emily skin. I watched as her left arm came around my torso and her hand landed on my chest. "We're out of time," she whispered. "OK?" she asked just as softly.

I nodded and then I watched her right hand reach around an take hold of me, and I felt myself respond instantly to her gentle touch.

"This is so fucked up, Emily," I whispered back.

She laughed, low and soft. I felt her breath dance between my shoulder blades and then her lips touched my skin there. "Just for a minute, pretend it's just the two of us and none of the rest of tonight is happening."

 _So very fucked up and confusing,_ I thought.

But she kept moving her hand, holding onto me and moving up and down gently with her body pressed against my back until I was panting, and then I moaned. I tried to hold it back, but I couldn't. Her hand on my chest pressed down more firmly, almost like an understanding hug - a hug between two good friends with an enormously complex relationship thrust into an unimaginable situation and stumbling through.

As instantly as her hands were on me, they were gone and she was in front of me in a blue satin corset that hid most of the marks on her body, and a leather skirt that could barely be called a skirt. And dammit if I didn't get even harder looking at her dressed like that.

 _What the hell is wrong with you?"_ I asked myself.

She picked the ring up off the table and attached it around me, looking at me sympathetically when I moaned slightly. I couldn't look in her eyes, so I turned to kneel in the stirrups, placed my chest over the bench, and got my arms into position, waiting for her to strap me in. She didn't at first. She crouched in front of my face and lifted my chin so I was looking her in the eye. "You listen to me, Derek Morgan. You are not giving up control here. You're choosing this so we can bring these people down. If at any point you can't do this, we'll disappear. You just say the word and we'll find that GPS chip in you, cut it out, get the hell out of here and never look back."

I blinked at her, taking in that possibility. She knew I wouldn't take her up on it, but it did make me feel slightly better. I was in control and I was choosing this.

"When I look at you," she continued, "I will always see Derek Morgan, and I know who that is."

"I know," I responded automatically. What else was there to say?

She kept her eyes locked with mine, eyes that looked foreign to me when they were blue, and then nodded. She put the collar around my neck, strapped in my arms and legs, blindfolded me and put the gag in my mouth. I felt a fine layer of sweat break out on my skin, both from nerves and fear and the tremendous pressure in my groin, which was good. I needed to look like I'd been like this for awhile. She stayed there with a hand on my shoulder until Clyde called from the other side of the door, "Helena just rang the buzzer at the gate and I opened it."

"Showtime, Dvornyaga." _Mongrel._ "Just play it like we discussed and you'll be out of this shortly."

I felt her lips brush softly against my cheek, and then she was out the door, leaving it wide open. I was enormously thankful in that moment that Garcia was tucked away in the garage and there was no chance she'd see me like this. Emily is one thing. Clyde is relatively neutral. But if I believe we're going to get through this, which I do, Penelope and I are still going to have to work together, and I can't imagine it if she saw me in this position.

So here I am, strapped down and waiting and wondering how the end of this whole saga looks. I haven't a clue. It's not long before I hear voices floating up the stairs. I can't make them out, but it sounds like Irina and Helena are ecstatic to see each other after being apart for two days.

A few seconds later, I hear Irina shout, "Evan, get some food for my dvornyaga. In the steel bowl!"

Then her voice is on the stairs. "Come. It's been an exhilarating couple of days, but I need to finish with my mongrel before I can enjoy you, and I certainly intend to enjoy you."

I hear Helena's light laugh and then I can hear them step into the room. It's completely disorienting to not be able to see, and to keep my head bowed as Emily instructed me to do. I miss whispered words here and there, but the bottom line is that Helena is impressed.

"His response to pain is what I'd expect. He can grit through it. Depriving him of food and water, fucking him, and the pool have proven to be much more effective. Still, yesterday, he begged me to just kill him. I informed him that when and if I decided I was done with him, a bullet would be too quick for a mongrel like him. He's learning."

I feel Emily's hands on my erection and her body leaning over me. "It's been twenty-four hours since you've last eaten, dvornyaga. Are you hungry?"

I don't move a muscle or make a sound, even though her hand on me and the pressure it creates makes me feel faint.

"You may nod or shake your head. Are you hungry?"

I nod.

A second later, I feel a pinching sensation as the ring is released; it nearly makes me scream, but I stay silent, and then the pressure is gone. My orgasm is harsh and lasts a deliriously long time, and I feel tears prick my eyes, because all I'm aware of is Emily's hand on me. _There's going to be no going back from this, and we're just getting started, we haven't even gotten to the worst of it,_ I think as my body jerks and convulses and I pull against my restraints.

I hear her laugh, and I hear Helena joining in. And then my restraints are released, first my legs and then my arms. The chain attached to the collar on my neck is yanked and move off the bench on shaky legs.

"Kneel!" Irina commands, and I do.

She pulls and guides me and I crawl across the floor. I hear the chain moving and I know she's attaching it to a steel hook on the floor and padlocking it. The gag is removed and my blindfold is ripped off my eyes. I blink in the harsh lighting, but I don't look up. On the floor is a food and water bowl.

"Eat, dvornyaga, but no hands. Evan will stay here with you. If you make any noise or pull on your restraints, I'll hear you or Evan will come get me, and I'll come back. It will be back to the bench or into the pool for you. Do you understand?"

I nod.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Emily leave the room, her hand clasped in Helena's. I need to eat the food - food that has been mushed so it looks disgusting, but I know it's only leftovers from the casserole last night. I have to eat it so it looks like I'm ravenously hungry. I bend my head forward so no food appears on my hands in case Helena checks on me. Then I see a fork appear in front of my face. I look up into Clyde's eyes and take the fork in my hand. He hands me a towel to place over my lap as I sit on the floor and take the food bowl in my hand.

"You hang in there, Morgan," he whispers so softly I can barely hear it. "I let her go into this and helped her to get you out, but I'm counting on you to get her through when this is all over."

I take a bite of food and stare at him. Every impression I ever had of who Clyde Easter was has been blown out of the water in the past few days. I can't figure out his relationship with Emily, but he's certainly far from the asshole I once thought he was.

* * *

Helena was gentle with me, and that was a thousand times worse than any other time I've been with her. I don't know if it's because we were alone, just the two of us, or if it was because my body still looked so bruised and tender. Whatever the reason, her soft, gentle hands on my body made me feel more nauseous than I'd ever felt before with her.

When she was sated, and I pretended to be, with a convincingly soft orgasm, she laid with her body pressed against mine and rested, her fingers running through my hair. I thought how easy it would be to kill her right then and there.

We only know a little more than we did yesterday. JJ and Reid sat in Penelope's lair while she walked them through the process of running her systems, but there were things she wouldn't touch. Nothing specific about Daniels or Eric Clarke. And Helena was impossible to search anyway since I didn't know her last name, or if Helena was actually her first name.

What we did learn was that seven years ago, while Peter Daniels was working for the FBI, a nine-year-old girl vanished while walking home from her school in Alexandria, Virginia, and was never seen again. There were never any leads in that case. But two other girls in the same area also vanished without a trace around the same time, and their bodies were found within forty-eight hours of their abduction. The BAU was never called in, but Daniels worked the case, based on newspaper articles.

When Penelope first had JJ and Reid search, she gave the parameters that didn't yield any viable hits. She was trying to match genders and an age range, kids from regular families who went missing seven years apart in the same general areas. But when she lifted the gender qualification, she got hits. A ten-year-old girl in Rome in 2006, and an eight-year-old boy in 2013; a nine-year-old boy in France in 2000, and a nine-year-old girl in 2007. It went on and on, the seven-year pattern, in Belarus, Istanbul, Virginia, Brooklyn, London, Amsterdam…

We're shooting in the dark and there is nothing to do with the information except to solidify our idea that there are likely fourteen people with tattoos. Twelve took kids people didn't search very hard for, if anyone knew they were missing at all, and two were designated to take the ultimate prizes, young children from families who went up on the auction block untouched. Every time someone expressed that thought, I watched Derek's face and knew all he was thinking about was Ari, and about the fact that there was a chance he could deliver Ari back to his family, a very scared and traumatized child, but not one who had been sodomized or sexually touched in any way.

We didn't know how the tattooed people were chosen or how long anyone had been involved. We had a multitude of ideas of how the organization could be structured, but nothing to go on besides educated guesses. We didn't know how the adult auctions fit into the equation, except that they were possibly just entertainment throughout the year. Perhaps, like Derek, they were people who had asked the wrong questions or seen the wrong things.

This morning, I took a flog to Derek Morgan's skin and cried while doing so, while he reassured me that it was fine. This evening, I got him aroused because he needed my help, and then I degraded him in front of Helena.

My skin feels like it's crawling and there isn't enough soap or scrubbing in the world that will wash away this case.

The only thing I can do is to gain clues in order to make today worth it, so I'm laying in this bed with Helena, holding her close while she catches her breath, and waiting for her to speak, to give me an angle to work with.

"When do you think he'll be ready to go out? Not for anyone else to touch him, but just for people to observe him?" she finally whispers against my forehead.

"I'm not sure. I suppose it depends where we are. He can't ever go to a club," I respond.

"No, not a club. A private house. The place where you met my brothers. There are many people curious about how things are going and they'd be willing to pay a price to watch it. I'm saving right now in hopes to make my own purchase in a couple of weeks."

I pull away from her, a look of curiosity on my face, but really to keep her away from my thrumming heart. She's saying she wants to buy a child, I'm guessing. "How much do you need? You helped me get what I wanted, and I could help you."

She shakes her head. "I appreciate it, but it doesn't work that way. Our money can't be directly tied to other people, just like my master would have never allowed it if you had apparently taken a loan to get your FBI agent. It gets too dangerous, even though I know I can trust you."

I lay on my back and look up at the ceiling, like I'm contemplating. Her fingers dance across my chest and I feel her watching me. She's buying all of this, and we need to get her on our side fully. I really don't want to send Morgan into a public viewing. Still, it seems like this is a chance we can't pass up in order to gain more trust and information. But I'm not making this decision without Derek's opinion; I refuse to take his choice away from him.

"Who would be in the room with me?" I ask.

"Me and maybe one or two of my brothers," Helena replies.

I roll on my side to face her, "I'd feel more comfortable with Dmitri or Ryan. I know them a little better and trust they wouldn't disobey my wishes when it comes to my dvornyaga."

Helena shakes her head. "They are not permitted in that residence."

I touch her cheek and smile. "Why not? They seem like decent men."

"They are. To me, they are like family, but they aren't part of my larger family. I met them when I was eighteen and adored them immediately, but they didn't have the same background as me, and the head of my family has never been fond of them. They don't know about your FBI agent, and it would never be permitted that they find out."

I run my fingers over her chest. "I understand. These things are delicate. I want to help you out, but I need a day to think about it. I can probably make it work."

I kiss her and she puts her arms around me. I kiss a path from her ear down her neck and back up again. "I miss Dmitri and Ryan. Where did you meet them?" I ask while sending a hope and prayer out to the universe.

She doesn't stop holding me, she doesn't even hesitate. "Our first day of orientation, at Oxford."


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N - Hold on. It's a hell of a chapter..._

* * *

 _August 17, 2015  
_ _Theydon Garnon, Essex, UK_

"Let's go over it again," I say to Penelope.

Her hand on my arm is gentle, but her sigh is exasperated. "I've got this, Emily. This is all precautionary anyway. Clyde and I have both been out of this house and we've never once got the sense that anyone was following us."

I look at her and she must see the concern in my eyes because she deflates. "OK," she says. "How about I walk you through exactly how this is going to go so you'll see I've memorized it."

I nod and Penelope points to the printed map on the table. "Clyde is going to drop me here on the fourth floor of this parking structure. We'll know if someone is following him at that point. If we sense anyone following us, I'm to stay in the car. But if it's clear, I'll get out of the vehicle as Anna Greenfield."

She points to a different map, "I'll take the elevator down to the street level, walk two blocks to Paddington Station, and enter this bathroom. I'll go in one entrance and enter a stall. I'll put on a black wig, take off my black jacket to reveal a red sweater underneath. I'll put a skirt on over my leggings and change shoes. I'll put everything inside the tan backpack that's inside a black back slung over one shoulder. I'll emerge with the tan backpack. I'll use a different exit for the bathroom, hop on the 10:10am train to Oxford. Then I'm on my turf. I'll enter the campus, go into the library, plug right into their ethernet so it's less traceable, get all the information we need, and waltz back out. Then I'll do everything in reverse. I'll take the 1:20pm train back and Clyde will pick me up in this parking structure over here at 3:00pm."

I look at her and nod. She smiles at me. "Emily, I was on my own after my parents died and did a lot of sneaking around while committing cyber crimes. I'm not as innocent as I look, and I can do this."

"I know you can. It's not that I doubt your abilities, I just can't stand even the remote idea of you getting hurt," I say.

She hugs me. "I won't get hurt. I'll be back here around four o'clock, hopefully with some information that helps us, and we'll look over everything during evening tea."

I smile and give her a little laugh. "I've really missed you," I say.

Garcia beams and hugs me again.

"You've got your own work to do today," she says while glancing upstairs where Derek is currently taking a shower, at least his third since last night.

I nod. I know. Derek didn't exactly bounce back last night. He faked it pretty well, but it didn't convince any of us.

Penelope touches my arm again. "You said last night that Helena wants him to go into a private residence so you can put him on display. I hate even the idea, but he's ultimately going to agree to the plan. I know about that night, the night after JJ's wedding. He was reluctant to go to London to visit you with me, and I pressed him as to why. He told me, and I convinced him to come, which was not one of my better choices. It was too soon, and he was too hurt. You didn't do anything wrong, and neither did he, Em. We're all a mess in our own way, it's just that both of your individual issues collided when you'd already decided to leave and he desperately wanted you to stay. I know you care about him; just how much is between you and him. I also know that if he's going in with you so Helena can make some money while other people watch, you're going to have to prepare him. And I know you can do it the right way so he doesn't completely fall apart. You just have to tap fully into that person you were for a couple of hours after JJ's wedding."

I blink and stare at her. And blink and blink. I'm speechless. I know what she's saying, and I'm completely taken aback by this woman who is so profoundly insightful without making me uncomfortable.

She smiles kindly at me. "The Emily he told me about when he talked about that night and the Emily who can carry him through this? It's who you really are. You just don't let her out to play often."

Clyde comes down the stairs at that point, ready to go. Derek follows almost immediately after him. He hugs Penelope fiercely and then she and Clyde are gone. I'm left with Derek, Penelope's words, and last night swirling in my mind...

Helena wanted to see him one last time before she left the house, and we found him laying on the floor, naked, with food on his face. Clyde was sitting in a chair guarding him.

"Perhaps one day, when he's completely broken, you'll get to enjoy him fully," she said while gesturing appreciatively below Derek's waist.

I laughed. "Perhaps. And perhaps you will, too."

Helena beamed at that.

It was no mystery to me why she was enamored with Derek's body. I was never the type to be infatuated with the more private parts of the male anatomy, but Derek Morgan naked was truly a magnificent sight to behold. Not like that, though, chained and slumped on the floor. Helena may have enjoyed the scene, but I just wanted to get him out of that room.

I walked Helena to the door and kissed her goodbye with the promise of a phone call tomorrow. After I watched her drive through the gate, I rushed upstairs and Clyde quickly exited the room.

"It's over," I said to Derek.

He opened his eyes and looked at me, then averted them. I knelt in front of him in my loose-fitting silk robe and undid the collar on his neck. Once it was removed, I rubbed the skin there, but he still kept his eyes lowered.

"Hey," I said softly.

He looked up at me and gently pulled me towards him, which left me with one leg on either side of his right thigh. I hugged him. "We did it, and I have some news," I whispered, but the parts of my skin touching him were responding to his nakedness just as much as his body was responding to mine.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

I stood and reached for his hand, pulling him up, keeping my eyes on his face. "No apologies. Go take a shower, and I will as well. Then we can gather and talk."

"Did she hurt you?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No, she was very gentle. Are you okay?"

He hesitated before nodding his head. "Just confused and unsettled," he said.

He walked away towards the bathroom and I sighed before heading towards mine. But after his shower he seemed a bit better. The four of us gathered in the kitchen where I delicately stated what Helena wanted, and then I broke the idea of Oxford. "I asked Helena how she'd met Dmitri and Ryan on our way back from Inferno that first night. She said they'd known each other for years and met at the clubs. She was pretty drunk and on drugs, so either she doesn't remember me asking, or she thinks I was just as out of it and don't remember asking. Whatever the reason, her initial reaction was to hide Oxford, and then she mentioned it tonight. That might be what ties these people. I don't know where Eric Clarke went to school, or Peter Daniels, and we can't safely tap their personnel records. But Oxford has a huge international student population, and we're talking impressionable kids away from their families for the first time and easily swayed and manipulated sometimes."

Clyde nodded. "It could be the link. But why not Dmitri and Ryan?"

"I thought about that in the shower," I replied. "If Dmitri and Ryan had a lot of money, they'd at least have been permitted to be buyers if they wanted to, after all of these years with Helena. But Helena was adamant that they were not permitted. What if they were at school on scholarships because their families were poor. You have an older person, a graduate student or an employee, recruiting students for a little cult. You don't choose the poorest students; they've fought too hard to get there and won't be as easily swayed. You pick the middle class kids, the ones whose parents might have saved for college, but who always wanted more. You pick the ones who can be swayed by the idea of power and money, and something "special." Something that sets them apart from the people who have always had more money than them. You pick the ones who are open to suggestion and might have been missing something in their lives, something that makes them easily infatuated and manipulated."

"He profiled them," said Derek through clenched teeth. "He profiled them and hand selected them. We need to find out who he is."

"We could get into Oxford's records safely without anyone finding out if I can hack in at the source," said Penelope excitedly.

And, thus, our plan emerged. Derek didn't like it anymore than I did, but he accepted it. He quietly went to bed after that, and when I went to check on him before I turned in, his bedroom door was locked. It brought tears to my eyes, that he was locking me out, and it made me think that bringing him in for a public viewing was a terrible idea. We were only pretending to break him, but the wrong move could actually break him. I heard the shower next to his room running again in the middle of the night.

This morning he seemed a little better, a little more like himself. We planned together and Clyde and Penelope got ready. Clyde intended to stay out for the day, instead of going back and forth between London and this house. He said he had things to do, and on the top of his list was getting a device that would allow us to find the GPS chip in Derek's body.

That gives us a good eight hours alone, which I think we need.

When the garage door closes behind Clyde and Penelope, Derek turns to face me. Direct questions while sitting in the living room aren't going to work. It will feel too much like therapy, a situation where I know he and I both clam up and deflect.

"I'm going to go for a swim," I say. "Want to join me?"

It's strange looking at him with a few days growth of hair on his head and face. Shaving is a no-go. If I was really Irina, I'd want him to start looking less like the missing FBI agent in the US newspapers.

He doesn't mention that he just showered. He shrugs his shoulders, nods and starts quickly heading towards the pool. By the time I make it in there, he's already whipping off his t-shirt and sweats. He dives quickly into the water wearing the boxer briefs Clyde picked up from the store a couple days ago.

Under my clothes is a tank top and underwear; I'm still not up for a bra against my tender skin if I can avoid it. I strip down to that and slowly sink into the water. I wait until he reaches the shallow end, and then join him in doing laps. He outpaces me easily, but once he realizes that, he slows, keeping my pace. We swim back and forth for about twenty minutes and I finally flip on my back, taking a few deep breaths. He stops swimming and heads towards me in the water, standing in the shallower part of the pool.

"I'll do it," he says. "I'll go in with you and we can put on a show for Helena so she can make some money. Regardless of what Garcia finds today, it's our best shot at getting to the kids."

I turn my head and glance at him. "Tell me," I say, throwing his words back at him. "Tell me what it was like with Buford."

His eyes narrow to slits and I see his jaw clench. He dives back into the water and does a few more laps. I wait, patiently floating there. After about five minutes he slows and comes to a stop next to me again.

"I was a biracial kid in a predominately black neighborhood in the seventies and eighties. It was probably better for me than if I was in the suburbs or anywhere in the south, but not by much. I always struggled to fit in, and there were always people gunning for me. They called me oreo, and half-breed. I was a wiry little rug rat with big eyes and lighter skin and a white mother. People knew my father was a police officer, and they mostly left me alone. Until he was murdered, and then I was fair game."

He took a deep breath and headed towards the steps at the shallow end of the pool, and I followed him. He sat down so just his upper chest was out of the water and I did, too. I sat beside him, a metal handrail separating us on the step. I watched him lean forward and put his face in his hands. "Carl Buford came into my life when I needed someone to talk to. I was doing stupid things, getting into some trouble. My mother and sisters were too broken up about my dad, and I didn't want to tell them how the neighborhood kids were treating me and how I was just trying to fit in. I didn't want to stress my mother out."

He turned to look at me and I reached out and placed my hand on his. He linked his fingers with mine, but turned away before he continued. His free hand played gently in sweeping arcs over the water. "It was the 80s, not exactly an enlightened time, and especially not in my neighborhood. The biggest insult someone could throw your way was to elude you were gay. By the time I was eleven, I knew what that really meant. By the time I was twelve, Carl had already started with me. He was methodical in his grooming of me. I was very confused and scared and held onto the secret because I didn't want anyone to know what I was doing. I lashed out, tried to take back some control in my life, joined the wrong crowd and got arrested. Carl got that record expunged and then he upped the ante in our private time together."

He turns to look at my face again. "I don't know what you want to know. It started when I was twelve, and ended when I was seventeen. Do you want to know what he did? You name it, and we did it. I don't let myself think about it much, but cases remind me. I thought I'd feel more settled when he was in jail and I went to therapy for awhile after he was arrested, but I hated it. Then I went back to therapy after he was murdered, thinking that with him dead, I could talk about it. But I couldn't. This is the longest conversation I've ever had about it. The biggest regret I have in my life is never saying anything, is living with the knowledge that from 1983 until 2006, for over twenty years, other kids were subject to what I went through because I was too ashamed to tell anyone."

I'm not sure when exactly I started crying, but by the time Derek is done speaking, there are tears rolling down my cheeks. That he went through that and ended up being who he is is an absolute testament to the powers of inherent resiliency. I squeeze his hand and search for comforting words.

"Your turn, since we're spilling secrets here," he says, surprising me.

I wipe my cheeks and consider him, thinking about what Penelope said earlier, about how we all have our own issues and Derek's and mine collided at the wrong time. Derek Morgan just wants someone to love him the right way, and I just want love to stay away from me because I don't know what to do with it.

I move my body under the bar so I'm sitting right next to him, our thighs touching and our hands still linked. "I liked working for Interpol. It was easier for me to pretend to be someone else and there were so many assignments that I never had to analyze myself as Emily too much. I was either preparing to be someone else or was inside as someone else. JJ thought I came from a desk job, and that's why it surprised her that I didn't blink at some of the things I saw when I first came to work for the BAU. You asked me once if I had a whip as a joke, and all I could think about was being at Inferno as Katarina. There were little things all the time that were said that reminded that I was lying to you all about my past. Clyde chose the BAU for me because he thought it would be a good place for me to use my profiling skills while getting to be myself, and after awhile, I did feel like I actually was myself. But not totally, because none of you knew the truth about me."

I turn my head to look at Derek who is watching my face intently. "When I learned Doyle had escaped, I was petrified. I _was_ scared that he might kill you all, and that was the reason I went after him. But the reason I didn't tell you what was going on when you asked me was because I was scared my past was going to come back and bite me and you'd all know that my resume and past was a complete lie. I thought if I could get to Doyle first and end things, I could keep the worst of it a secret from you. And the worst of it was that when I was in with Doyle, I became Lauren Reynolds so completely that I started having feelings for him. He became Ian, my lover, and I was angry as hell at first when Clyde pulled me out. I mourned the loss of him in my life for several months before I snapped out of it and that love was replaced by a healthy fear of who Ian Doyle really was."

I clear my throat again and move to stand in front of Derek. "I couldn't get my footing back because you all were good about it after I came back to Paris, but I had the feeling every day that my lies were now part of who I was to you all. That night after JJ's wedding, when you said you thought the two of us could work out, I couldn't even fathom the idea. I had a series of short, failed relationships before I started at Interpol, I didn't date at all when I was working for Interpol. I wasn't looking for a relationship when I was working with the BAU because I had volumes of issues there I didn't want to deal with. The last relationship I ever had was a few months with a terrorist that I fell in love with when I was pretending to be someone else."

Derek stares at me for a few seconds, then stands abruptly so that his body is pressed against mine. We are stripped bare in that moment of the ability to hide anything from each other, and Derek throws his insecurities right out in front of me. "I thought it was me."

"What?"

"I thought it was because of me that you didn't want to try and still chose to leave."

"Oh, Derek," I sigh while shaking my head. "No. It wasn't because of you at all."

His fingers touch my hairline and he kisses my cheek. I move my arms to hug him, and he moves his arms to wrap around me gently, still mindful of the bruises on my back. "They don't really hurt anymore," I whisper in his ear. That's not quite true, but when his arms wrap more tightly around me, I'm not aware of the pain.

We stay like that for several minutes, both of us in a state of comfort and confusion, found and lost at the same time. We're in the middle of a horrendous case, it's only been a couple of weeks since Savannah left him, and when this is over, he's going to go back to DC. I could give two shits about my job right now, but this case is going to require massive clean up when it's done and I can't just waltz away.

I get back to the matter at hand. "I'm worried that if you come with me and Helena, you're going to have a flashback in the middle of it, or your triggers are going to be pushed, and you'll lose it and either give us away or get them all riled up and make them think I need help controlling you. I'd kill them before they touched you, but if we want to get to the kids and bring them all down..."

"I've got to keep my shit together," he finishes.

I breathe out a laugh and nod against his shoulder.

He pulls away from me to look me in the eyes. "Practice makes perfect? I assume that's what you're suggesting."

I nod. "I don't like it, but I think it's the best option. I don't think me coming at you with a strap on for the first time while you're tied down and in front of an audience is going to end well."

He closes his eyes for a moment and I watch him take a few deep breaths. I feel his heartbeat pick up. "Have you done that before?" he asks with his eyes still closed.

"If you'd asked me that ten days ago I would have been able to say no," I say lightly.

His eyes pop open. "With Clyde?"

I shake my head. "No. Helena took care of the honors that night. At Inferno with the man I never was told the name of."

He hugs me again and we stand there in the water. I rub my hand up and down his back and hang on. It's minutes later when he finally says, "OK. You're right. Let's do this."

It's fucking unbelievable, this whole situation. I can't wrap my mind around it - how many issues Derek and I have on our own and with each other, and how we're coming together again only to compound them by something like this. But we want Ari and thirteen other children and we want The Minotaur, and there's nothing to do here but play our parts, and play them in a way that keeps us both physically safe and emotionally as stable as possible.

* * *

She's gentle with me. We don't kiss; there aren't any romantic preliminaries. I think both of us are on the same page here - this is her and me, and it's also not. This is preparing to go undercover, just like you'd thoroughly prepare for any component of an undercover assignment.

But we're also not in my torture chamber and I'm not on some padded leather bench. We're going to have to practice this again before I go in with her, while she's in her Irina character. That's what I was expecting when I agreed to a practice run, but Emily shook her head. "Not the first time," she said.

So we're in my bed and her naked body is pressed against mine, behind me and over my back. She prepared me well and there's no physical pain, but humiliation and my past culminate inside me into something that's worse than physical pain.

 _"I'll stop any time you want and we'll find another way. Just say the word,"_ she whispers against the skin of my back.

 _"It's me, Derek. It's Emily, and I would never hurt you,"_ she whispers over and over.

I'm sweating and there are tears dripping down my face and her hands on my body are so gentle and I don't know what emotion or sensation to grasp onto. But she was right - this would have been a disaster if I had just agreed to go in with her and Helena with no preparation. I was fifteen the first time Buford made the leap from fondling and oral to this; still slightly scrawny because puberty hit me late, so tense and afraid and embarrassed that there was nothing but blinding pain and fear.

But I'm not fifteen now, and this isn't Carl Buford, and I'm not being groomed or manipulated. I'm choosing this just like I chose last night.

"I would never hurt you, Derek," she whispers again.

On the wings of her whispers and gentle hands on my skin, my humiliation fades after several minutes, and the burning I feel inside me becomes that of arousal. Embarrassment washes over me when I realize it and even though Emily can't see my face, she must sense it. "Shhh," she whispers. "It's okay." I feel one hand snake over my hip and around me, taking me in her hand.

It's not long after that, with tears dripping down my face and my whole body shaking and her lips pressed against my back that I come. I'm not quiet about it. It's intense and she's right there with me and then it's over.

I don't move from the position I'm in, up on my knees. I bury my head against the pillow. I feel her move, pulling gently away from me, out of me. I feel her shuffling a bit, hear velcro coming undone, and then a soft thunk as something hits the carpeted floor. Her hands are back, pulling on me slightly, moving me away from the wet spot on the bed, moving my body, and I let her guide me. I let her guide me until I am on my side, facing her, and she is holding me in her arms, my head against her chest.

"I've got you," she says as she holds me tightly to her. And it's in the moment that I realize she's crying, too.

When I fantasized about Emily and I eventually coming together - and I imagined it often enough, from about the second year she was with the team right up until I started dating Savannah - I thought there would be a spark, a meeting of our souls in a moment of clarity for both of us.

That moment of clarity came for me after JJ's wedding, but not for her.

I never imagined a situation where we would have to hellishly strip ourselves down to a skeletal version, where our pasts and secrets and insecurities were bared so completely to each other. I'm not sure how we're going to put the pieces of ourselves back together, how we're going to look when that's done, but we're going to need to help each other.

Feeling strangely better than I have in a very long time, I bury my body more firmly against her, skin to skin, and whisper, "I've got you, too."


	12. Chapter 12

_August 24, 2015_  
 _Chelsea, London_

I'm standing in my bathroom, staring at the contents of the top drawer in my vanity, contemplating whether or not to pack the box that's staring me in the face...

On Friday, August 21st, Hotch was told that, in light of no new leads in Derek's case, the BAU was ordered to take the weekend and then return to work on Monday ready to take active cases again. That same afternoon, Fran Morgan, tired of vague phone conversations, showed up at the BAU and demanded to know about what was going on in the search for her son.

Via secure messaging with Garcia, a plan was hatched for the next phase of this operation. Fran was taken to Garcia's apartment, which was locked down and safer than Fort Knox in terms of surveillance. Fran was told that her son was currently safe at Derek's insistence that his mother would never say a word, and if we needed Fran Morgan to fake a nervous breakdown, she'd win an academy award for her performance.

According to any traceable paperwork, Garcia put in a request for two weeks of personal leave because she couldn't face going back to regular work without Derek, her best friend, there. According to anyone outside of the team, she'd be holing up in her apartment with Fran during her time off.

And, according to a flight passenger list that was doctored by Penelope Garcia, Emily Prentiss got on a flight from Dulles to Heathrow yesterday morning.

So, last night, even though it physically pained my heart, I left Derek. Clyde drove me to Heathrow where I emerged from the vehicle in the parking structure wearing a wig that matched my natural hair color and style, with eyebrows that had been turned back to dark brown with makeup. I got in a cab that took me to the airfield where I'd left my car eighteen days before.

I drove home, to my flat. When I let myself in the door and closed it behind me, I stood in my entryway for a good ten minutes just looking around, trying to remember the Emily who had once lived there. It might have only been eighteen days, but it felt like months since I'd been home. It seemed strange to me that I'd ever once called that flat home at all.

There was a funky odor in the air that I traced to the kitchen. I cleaned out the refrigerator. And then I cleaned the rest of the kitchen. I scrubbed the bathrooms after that, and then dusted everything. I cleaned until two o'clock in the morning and tried not to think about Derek at that estate without me for one night. But when I finally climbed into my my bed, he was all I was thinking about.

Waking up naked and surrounded by another naked human being is not a sensation I'm in any way familiar with. It's not that I'm prudish - clearly - it's just that I've never been the type who liked the vulnerability I felt while sleeping naked next to someone. It always felt to me like I was giving too much of myself away. I was a woman who would have sex, more often than not enjoy sex, and then quietly put at least a t-shirt and underwear back on before being able to fall asleep, if I'd stay the night at all

But Derek and I are on some strange plane of existence that does not involve sex in our classic sense of the word, at all. It started when we both fell asleep in his bed, our arms around each other right after he whispered, "I've got you, too."

Two hours later, I woke up and he was awake and staring at my face, his hand gently resting on my naked hip. "OK, Irina," he said. "Let's do this in character before Garcia and Easter get back."

I almost didn't make it through that, tying him down and being so rough and saying terrible things to him. The desire to get him out of that house and just disappear forever was right under the surface of my skin. But I stayed in character, and he stayed with me. He didn't lose his shit. And when we were done, and I unstrapped him, he stood slowly and looked at me. "I've got this," he said. "Let's go save some kids and bring these bastards down."

I called Helena while he showered and let her know I would help her, and we could bring my mongrel and put on a paid show. She was ecstatic, and for what felt like the thousandth time since all of this started, I swallowed bile.

Garcia and Clyde returned safely that evening with the keys to everything; an overwhelming plethora of information Garcia gathered while at Oxford. Derek and I listened while assessing each other with side glances that didn't entirely go unnoticed by Penelope and Clyde.

That night, before Clyde and Penelope turned in, without a care in the world, Derek came into my bedroom where I was laying in bed staring at the pages of a book I had no recollection of reading. He shut the door behind him and stripped off his t-shirt and sweats like sleeping together naked was something that was a regular part of our routine, and then crawled into bed with me. Without a word, I stripped off the t-shirt I was wearing to bed and burrowed my body against his, our skin providing something for each other I'm not sure either of us could describe with words.

The following three nights after that were the same.

And the night after that, while Hotch was in Virginia getting Fran settled at Penelope's, Helena and her driver picked us up. I had Derek in a collar with a chain attached that I was holding, his wrists cuffed together and a hood over his head. When we got in the car, Helena placed a hood over my head after glancing quickly at her driver. I got it; she wouldn't choose to cover my head at all, but the driver was watching her. She didn't swipe me for listening devices, though.

We drove for about two hours and I thought I might lose Derek when he realized that we were back at the place where his auction took place. I watched his fists clench before they relaxed slightly. I'm not sure how many people watched, or how much they paid, because they were behind one-way mirrors. I wore a simple, leather Venetian mask. I told Helena it was for privacy purposes, but really it was in case Eric Clarke had come to the show. Derek and I were on the stage with Helena and the two brothers we now knew the names of thanks to Penelope. To say it was all awful would be the understatement of the century, and watching it all play out on thirty-six mirrors that were facing us made it grotesque and impossibly more horrifying.

But Derek stayed mentally with me; he played his role as well as I did. And no one else touched him. One of Helena's "brothers," who now we know was named Kristoff, came towards me when I was going at Derek and I glared at him. I had a whip in my hand that I raised. "He's mine!" I snarled, and he laughed amicably with his hands raised and backed away.

Helena thanked me profusely on the drive home, and I wondered how much she could have made. The whole monetary structure of her "family" was still a mystery to us.

"I'm so happy that I could help you, Helena," I genuinely breathed out behind my hood. "I'd love to be able to come with you when you try to make your purchase. Nothing would thrill me more than to see you as content and satisfied as you've made me."

I felt her hand on my knee, squeezing it gently. "Let me see what I can do. There's the matter of your mongrel here. You couldn't leave him with Evan for that long," she said.

That let us know the auction wasn't likely in the UK, but nothing more. I didn't push my luck with her driver listening. "Why don't you come for dinner on Tuesday night? We can discuss the possibility then, and if it can't work out, I understand."

I felt her hand squeeze mine. I kissed her goodbye when we pulled into the estate, after she removed my hood.

When we came in the door and Penelope and Clyde were waiting up for us, I gave a slight shake of my head, and they didn't question us.

"It went as well as it could have for our goal, and it's over. I'll fill you in on the details in the morning," was all I said as I watched Derek head up the stairs.

I didn't wait until bedtime. I walked away from Clyde and Penelope and followed him right into the bathroom and into the shower. I pressed my body against his beaten back and leaned my cheek against his shoulder.

"Watching you with them, Emily," he sighed while shaking his head.

It surprised me that his concern seemed to be more for me than for himself. "I'm really okay."

"How can you even say 'okay' when talking about any of this? None of this is okay." His voice was defeated.

"You're right. But it's survivable if we keep our goal in mind. If that's still your goal. There's not a person on this planet who could possibly blame us if we want to call this quits."

He turned in my arms and lifted my chin so I was looking him in the eyes. He searched my face for nearly a minute before saying, "Neither one of us is a quitter."

I touched his cheek. "No, we're not."

That night we didn't bother with underwear. We went from the shower to the bed and wrapped our arms securely around each other. Surprisingly, we slept.

He kept his arms around me night after night while the bruises on my body faded from purple to green to a pale yellow. Neither one of us seemed to have nightmares. In the morning, he'd exit my bedroom in his sweats and t-shirt and we'd go about our days, talking and planning with Clyde and Penelope like nothing out of the ordinary was going on in that house every night.

There's no kissing aside from the occasional, gently brush across the other's cheek. There are no wandering hands. But, the truth is, something extraordinary is happening, at least inside of me. Sleeping naked with Derek still feels like I'm giving a lot of myself away, but the miraculous thing is that I don't mind it. I want him to have whatever I have to give.

I managed to sleep for a few hours in my flat last night, and then this morning, wig firmly in place, and makeup carefully applied to accentuate tired, distraught eyes instead of slightly fuller lips, I walked into Interpol.

I met with the agents who had been picking up the slack while I was gone. I signed some paperwork that needed to be signed and made sure everyone was set for me to be gone for awhile longer. I explained that my very good friend, Derek Morgan, was missing and there were no clues. I choked up appropriately, keeping my tears at bay so that I was the staunchly professional Emily they all knew. I explained that the BAU was going back on regular rotation and I couldn't hang out when they were going to be going off on cases. I convincingly played Emily Prentiss, Director of London Interpol. I explained that this had really shaken me, and that I was going to go spend two weeks with my mother in Italy, and then I would be back at work and ready to go.

I smiled slightly at Eric Clarke when I passed him in the hallway.

My task completed, I drove my car back to my flat. The streets of London felt foreign to me, like I couldn't believe I'd lived there for over three years. I returned to my flat and packed a suitcase...

It's when I'm in my bathroom gathering the shampoo and hair conditioner that my thoughts wander to the top drawer in my vanity. I open it and look inside, considering the box I'm staring at.

On the occasions I've had sex since I've been in London - nothing serious, but random dates that ended in a fit and burst of loneliness coming out in the need for some physical connection - I always doubled up. I have an IUD, but I insist on condoms, too.

Derek and I might only just sleep with our arms around each other until the end of this case; it seems likely since neither one of us are really in the mindset for starting something in the middle of this, and I'm not sure at all how I feel about that right now. However, in case that changes, there is no way in hell I'm going to put him at risk for any STD I could potentially have now. I place my hand on the box of condoms in the drawer, and then withdraw it - not having them will be a good excuse to put a stop to anything that might start.

I walk back to my bedroom, toss the shampoo and conditioner in my suitcase and zip it up. I make it all the way to my front door and am about to put in my alarm code.

"Shit," I whisper, conflicted.

I go back to my bathroom, grab the box of condoms and shove it in the side of my suitcase.

I take a cab back to Heathrow in time for the 7:00pm flight to Rome, a flight that's passenger list will also be altered so it looks like I was on it. Clyde picks me up right on time on the top floor of the parking structure. I get in the car and remove my wig.

"How did it go?" he asks.

"Just as planned," I say softly.

He glances at me and I give him a small smile, to let him know I'm okay. All that's really on my mind is getting back to the estate and back to my bed, and back to Derek tonight. But Clyde deserves a smile, because he's been truly phenomenal through all of this.

The night after we put on our show with Helena, when Derek was already in bed, I went downstairs to grab a bottle of water before I took off my clothes for the night. Before I rounded the corner to the kitchen, I came to standstill when I heard voices and sounds.

First it was the familiar clatter of Clyde getting pills out of the Ibuprofen bottle, something that's become quite common. This case is taking a lot out of him and it's manifesting in the form of tension headaches.

"You know their history as much as I do. I knew they were going to have to walk each other through this mess, but I wasn't quite considering this. I'm worried it's going to make it all worse in the long run," said Penelope.

"There's a general rule when going undercover that says you don't put yourself in a position that will make it more difficult for you when the case is over, if it can be helped," said Clyde.

"So you agree, whatever it is they're up to in Emily's room every night is just going to make this harder for them when the case is over," said Garcia.

"My sweet Penelope, on the contrary, I think whatever it is that they're up to is going to be the thing that helps them the most when this case is over," said Clyde.

I heard him take a sip of water and then silence for a few seconds. "You are a confusing and exasperating man," said Penelope, a hint of humor in her voice.

"So I've been told," he said.

* * *

August 24, 2015  
Theydon Garnon, Essex, UK

According to what Garcia gathered from archived issues of the Oxford Student Newspaper, personnel files, newsletters and other publications, Adrian Stancu was an international student from Romania who double-majored in Psychology and Literature, and graduated with honors from Oxford in 1982. He went on to receive his Masters and PhD in Psychology and Cognitive Science from Sapienza University of Rome.

In 1988, he returned to Oxford as an Academic Psychologist. He and three other colleagues were responsible for new student counseling and academic advising. Adrian was assigned new students whose last names started with A through F. Eric Clarke was part of that class, as was Peter Daniels and one Meaghan Helena Freeman.

We struck gold. A featured article that covered a goodbye party for Adrian in the spring of 1992 pictured him with fourteen students with beaming smiles, the people we already knew among them: The two other men and one woman Emily had met who had the tattoo now had names; the man who'd originally invited Emily into Inferno in 2004 was also part of that class. Adrian stated in the article he had plans to open up a private practice in Tuscany, a city he'd fallen in love with when he lived in Italy.

When Garcia blew up that picture on her computer screen, I watched Emily reach out and touch the face of a much younger Helena.

"You're not sympathizing with her, are you?" asked Clyde.

Emily shook her head. "Not now. She's been living this life for over twenty years and she's probably had opportunities to get out that she hasn't taken. But I do sympathize for the eighteen-year-old she once was. Think about how different her life would have been if she or any of them had gone to a different college, or if Adrian had never gone back to Oxford, or if her last name was Smith instead of Freeman. She didn't walk into Oxford being this way."

I put my arm on her back at that point. I both agreed and disagreed. I'd never have been swayed by a man like Adrian Stancu, and neither would have Emily. Then again, he probably wouldn't have chosen us for that very reason.

We deductively reasoned it was likely that when the man who Emily met in 2004 was arrested in 2010, Robert Daniels, Peter's brother, stepped into "the family." 2010 was also the year the Peter left the FBI and returned to Brooklyn, according to what Peter told me.

Armed with student ID pictures and one faculty ID picture of Adrian Stancu, we believed we had who The Minotaur was, and who the fourteen people with tattoos were. Adrian was methodical, not only in his selection of disciples, but in diversifying their majors and locations. Four were from London, but the rest were spread out - Paris, Brussels, Hamburg, New York, Montreal, Madrid, etc.

Alumni news articles let us know the career path for many of them - Adrian was precise, and we pondered if he had guided people to take on the careers they did, those careers that would best be an asset to his cult, which is what we were calling it. There was a medical doctor, an investment banker, a lawyer and two pilots, along with a technical analyst for Interpol and one FBI Agent/Police Lieutenant.

Helena had stayed at Oxford and obtained a Masters Degree in Architectural Engineering, along with one other person among the fourteen. Suddenly how a person had managed to build at least one, and possibly multiple, intricate auction houses without anyone knowing became more plausible.

That there was far more to this than we knew was a given. This hadn't gone on for so long without blackmail and, likely, murder at some point. There were buyers and people who had helped them, and not all of them could be held to secrecy. I think of Thug B, who may have been a kid auctioned off himself at some point. I think of Helena's driver. I think of all the people bidding on me who didn't have tattoos.

Having the information was good in that it solidified our profile, but it did nothing in terms of us acting on the information right away. Garcia communicated with Hotch and we all were on the same page - A massive, international take-down would be impossible to pull off, and though I thought Ari was in Tuscany, where Adrian supposedly now lived, that was over a week ago. Ari had probably been moved since then. And we had no clue where the rest of the children were.

Not only that, but we wanted the buyers, and we wanted to recover as many children from past auctions that we possibly could. Our mission is still to find out the location of the auction, and to do that, Emily and I need to do our thing. Which we did, last Friday night.

I'm actually hanging in there, and our mission is clear in my mind. I'm getting on a plane with Ari at the end of the month and bringing him back to his mother. And, if I'm lucky, I'll be the one who gets to put the cuffs around Peter Daniels. Or perhaps a bullet in his head.

Being with Emily, even when she's Irina and wielding a whip or flog and saying harsh, degrading things to me, is far different than what I experienced when I was a teenager. When it gets terrible, I can close my eyes and remember her whispered words. _It's Emily. I would never hurt you._ And then I cling onto that reality and the goal at hand.

After that night on the stage with Helena and her "brothers," all I could see in my mind was the way Emily just gave her body over and played her part. That she did that exact thing several times over in order to get to me is really the only thing that's staying with me. I'd imagined it before, but seeing it in technicolor, reflected on dozens of mirrors was more of a nightmare to me than my past.

I can't believe she did that for me.

Holding her in my arms with our skin against each other helps tremendously. It helps me know that she's still there with me, present as herself, even though it's not something we've ever done before this.

That night after JJ's wedding, when she told me emphatically that she was going to London, I felt tears sting behind my eyes. Rather than do something humiliating like cry, I got out of her bed abruptly. I angrily yanked my clothing back on, and then I made a quick path to her front door.

She followed me with a sheet wrapped around her. She called out my name, and I turned to look at her. I'm not sure what she saw in my face, but after a few seconds, she dropped her head. "Get home safely," she whispered.

I didn't slam her door shut, but I wanted to. The tears came when I was in the elevator, and I remember leaning my head against the shiny surface of that metal box as I was taken down to the parking garage, whispering, "Don't you know I love you?"

I don't dare whisper those words now, but they are told in a thousand ways, and I feel like she's saying them back to me. They're said in the way her body molds against mine. They are said as our fingers play symphonies against the skin of the other's hands because any other touching seems off limits, which feels both bizarre and oddly appropriate while we're both naked in these circumstances. They are said in the way her breathing evens out and then our breaths match each other, in and out, before we fall asleep.

They are said in the way we sleep soundly despite this nightmare we're currently living. They are said when one of us wakes up first in the morning and moves slightly, and the one still sleeping clasps on and doesn't want to immediately let go of the comfort or the sleep.

The words are practically shouted as a declaration in the mornings, when we're both awake and we smile almost shyly at each other, with our eyes mostly still closed, like we can't quite take the reality that would rush at us if we smiled at each other with eyes wide open after spending the night with our arms around each other.

Sleeping without her last night was almost impossible. I retired to my bed and tossed and turned, then went to her bed to retrieve her pillow so I could at least smell the scent of her skin and hair. When I was walking back down the hallway, Penelope peeked out of her room. She saw me, she saw the pillow in my hand, and I was preparing myself for probing questions or a joking comment of some sort. I got neither. Instead she smiled softly. "Let me know if you can't sleep. We can go watch a movie or something," she said.

I don't know where all of this is going or what this looks like come September. I have a feeling that how this case ultimately ends is going to play a part in what the future holds. Right now I'm just trying to hold onto the day-to-day, when it comes to my personal feelings. My mind swirls and plans and ponders this case, and ponders the likelihood of Emily getting an invitation to join Helena in a few days at the kids' auction. She's played this exactly right so far, and there's no doubt in my mind that she'll get what we need tomorrow.

But, at this moment, the front gate just opened and Clyde has pulled back in. It's not safe for me to stand at the windows in this house, freely walking around, but I watch from the monitors upstairs. I'm downstairs in the kitchen when Emily comes back in through the door that leads to the garage.

She smiles when she sees me and steps forward to give me a hug. "I missed you," she whispers in my ear so softly that I'm the only one who can hear her words.

I smile and hug her harder.

No, I have no clue what the future looks like. All I know is that no matter what was never said between the two of us, we are admirably and lovingly navigating our way through hell right now, and I'm not sure there are two other people who could pull this off like Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan can.


	13. Chapter 13

_August 26, 2015  
Theydon Garnon, Essex, UK_

I hold Helena's hand as we walk down the staircase at the estate, firming up my plans in my mind on how I'm going to play this dinner together, knowing I have to play my part just as well as Anna Greenfield had just played hers.

Last night we agreed to the previously unthinkable, which shouldn't be surprising given the boundaries we've all shattered as this case has progressed, time and time again. When Penelope insisted on coming with us, I swore I'd never let her out of my sight, but I did a few times, entrusting her to herself and to Clyde. I said I could never physically hurt Derek, but I'd done it.

We all - Clyde and I, and the BAU team - made a silent oath that we wouldn't require Garcia to actually play her role. But when it came time for Helena's dinner at the house, and we knew the issue of leaving Derek with Evan would come up, we decided it was time for Anna Greenfield to come visit. We needed her to be intimidating and in charge and clearly someone who could handle Derek.

Last night, after I was back at the estate and after we'd made that decision, Derek and I had comfortably and thankfully climbed into my bed together.

"If she's asked to pass any tests, you agree to leave me with whomever they require, or we pull out of this case. Under no circumstances is Garcia to have to physically and emotionally live the realities of being Anna Greenfield outside of this house," Derek whispered in my ear.

"She's stronger than you think, but I agree," I replied.

"She _is_ strong, but she's also more sensitive and doesn't bounce back like we do."

Those words gave me pause. Did I bounce back? Yes, but not really, not quite the same. I imagined myself a rubber ball in that moment, something effervescent that was thrown down when I was fifteen years old, and it bounced back, just a little lower. Each time it reverberating against the ground after that, I bounced back, but never as high as before. I was only slightly dribbling when I left the BAU and returned to Interpol; I was barely more than a slow roll. The past three years have been a plateau - a safe, lonely, level knee-high bounce without any ups and downs. I'm not sure how I'm doing now.

"I know," I finally whispered to Derek.

"Promise me," he said.

"Absolutely. We won't take her as Anna outside of this house." I said.

We shouldn't have worried so much.

While Penelope was dressing for her part in her bedroom before Helena arrived, I went to strap Derek into the wrist and ankle braces attached to the wall in the little torture chamber here. Clyde came in and let me know that dinner was ready. Then he looked at Derek. "Whatever happens, don't pull too hard on the right wrist. This is only supposed to look authentic, and that hook in the wall is in there with a molly bolt because the next stud was too far away."

Derek nodded at Clyde and Clyde nodded back. He clapped his hands together. "Piece of cake, Team," he called out, loud enough for Garcia to hear. "We're too close to second guess ourselves now, so let's not start. We've got this."

I've heard those words out of Clyde's mouth several times in years' past. There was only one time it didn't quite work out the way it was supposed to, and that was with Doyle. I decided to play the odds, align with Clyde's faith, and believe this would all be fine.

Helena was right on time, wearing a nice summer dress that was identical in style to mine. She kissed me happily when she arrived, and then said, "My driver has been instructed to come in. Don't worry, it's just to assess the safety of your equipment. He'll see your mongrel is secure even with just Evan, and hopefully I'll get permission to bring you with me on Saturday."

 _Saturday_ , I sighed in my mind. Was it possible that in a little over four days that this would all be over?

"There's no need," I responded easily. "Anna flew in last night. She's staying the week, and she will probably take Evan with her for a bit when she goes." I smiled winningly and seductively at Helena, "I was hoping you'd come to stay here for a few days when they go."

Helena smiled softly and nodded her head. "We'll have to see what happens on Saturday."

Her driver interrupted gruffly, "It makes no difference who is here. I was given a job. Where is it?"

At first I thought he meant the room, and then I realized "It" was referring to Derek.

"I'll show you, but only because _I_ want to. This is ridiculous." I said tensely. Irina would not have appreciated this at all, this intrusion on her private life and her purchase. I could only hope that Clyde had heard the whole exchange and was last-minute coaching Garcia like hell right about then.

I slowly lead the way upstairs and could see Clyde's bedroom door closed. Behind the door, muffled sounds of exertion and groans and the sound of a whip slashing through the air and landing on skin.

I opened the door to the room Derek was in, and he stood as he should while strapped against the wall, head bowed and a gag in his mouth.

Helena stayed back and held my hand outside the doorway as the driver entered and started looking around the room. He took a perimeter path and carefully studied the bench that was bolted to the floor, checking its security. He looked at the assortment of whips and flogs that were on the table, along with other toys. He kicked Derek's food and water bowl with the tip of his boot. He crouched and pulled on the hook in the ground that had Derek's collar with a chain still attached to it. He was coming up on Derek to check the restraints he was currently attached to, and all I was thinking about was a molly bolt and one good tug.

Just then, Clyde's bedroom door slammed open from down the hall, which made all of us freeze. Garcia, looking fierce and slightly sweaty in leather, emerged with a whip in her hand. Helena took an instinctive step back, and I didn't blame her. If I didn't know it was Penelope Garcia, I would have been a little scared, too.

"What is going on here?" Garcia demanded.

I smiled comfortably. "It's nothing, Anna. Helena's driver is just checking the accommodations for my new acquisition."

Garcia walked right in the doorway and right up to the driver, taking him on toe to toe, which was interesting given the fact that she was about a foot shorter than he was.

"What is the meaning of this? My family has dealt with situations such as this for decades, and never in my life have we been disrespected in such a way after a purchase. Irina was proven to be trustworthy. She paid for him. You took her money. You have absolutely no right to question what she does or doesn't do, who she leaves him with, or what kind of accommodations are in this house!"

The driver stepped back so he could look at her better. "I've been ordered," he said a little uncertainly.

Garcia raised the whip in her hand and ran the thumb and index finger of her other hand over the leather. She got to tip of the whip and the leather fell again. She showed her bloodied fingers to the driver and then licked the blood from her hand, moaning appreciatively before swallowing. "And I'm sure you'll report that Irina's mongrel is obviously secure and there is no problem here," she said while smiling at him, her teeth tinged slightly pink.

I smiled like a Cheshire cat, like Irina would smile at this situation, but Emily was smiling right there with her. _Damn. Penelope Garcia. Who knew?_

The driver was speechless for a few seconds, and Garcia growled in frustration. She slashed the whip backwards, and Derek grunted when it landed across his chest, then she snapped the whip towards the driver, barely missing him. "Won't you be reporting that?" she asked again.

"You'll be here this weekend?" he asked.

Garcia grinned again. "There's no place else I want to be."

The driver nodded. "He's obviously secure here, then."

Garcia nodded. "I thought you'd see it that way. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm sure Irina wants to get to her dinner with her new little friend, and I've got unfinished business with my brother down the hall. I haven't seen him in weeks, and there's lost time to make up for."

She turned on her high heels and walked back towards the doorway. She reached up and kissed me, then patted Helena's cheek. She walked down the hallway without a backwards glance, the whip at the ready in her hand, and opened the bedroom door. She slammed it behind her.

I glanced at the driver and then back at Helena, who was - I think - trying very hard not to laugh out loud. "Why don't you take the car and go get some dinner. You can pick me up in a couple of hours," she said to her driver.

He didn't waste any time leaving the room and heading back down stairs. I reached forward to grab the door handle to shut Derek back in, and I knew he was smiling on the inside despite the fresh welt on his chest...

Helena and I head towards the dining room, and I pull out a chair for her and wait for her to be seated before going to the kitchen to retrieve our dinner. Clyde has many hidden talents, and cooking is one of them. The food smells decadent. I bring out the trays and an expensive bottle of bordeaux while Helena smiles at me. Before we serve ourselves, she stands from her seat and kisses me.

"Very few people in my family have partners. It's frowned upon in general, but the head of my family likes you and respects you. It wasn't him who insisted on having this place checked out; it was a few of my brothers and sisters."

I'm not sure what to do with that information at first so I smile and touch her cheek. I pour her a glass of wine. "My family's rules seem different than yours, but we're not directly involved in such complex matters as you seem to be, so I understand. Anna and I, and sometimes Evan, have mutual understandings and discussions," is my response.

Helena nods understandingly. She serves herself food and smiles appreciatively when she takes her first bite of Blanquette de Veau.

"Did you make this?" she asks.

I laugh. "The truth? Evan did. He's tried to teach me, but I generally burn everything. I'm hopeless in the kitchen."

Helena touches my hand. "Me, too. You have an interesting family."

I tilt my head. "Interesting, but sometimes lonely. Evan is mine only as long as Anna isn't with us. I'm not sure how everything else is going to work out," while glancing upstairs towards the room Derek is in. "Whatever happens, it won't be like family. The best I've felt in over a decade is the time I've spent with you."

Helena tries to hold back. She blinks and looks down at her plate, and takes several breaths, but when she looks back up, tears are in her eyes. I reach for her but she shakes her head at me. She places a hand on her chest and then places a finger over her lips. People are listening to our conversation.

I nod. "I'm intrigued by your family as well. I admire the power you have, and the strength in numbers and protectiveness."

Helena laughs convincingly through her tears. "That's true. We do have that. I wouldn't trade it for the world."

I don't believe her, not entirely.

We eat in companionable silence for awhile. And then I launch her into an innocent conversation about my childhood, drawing up details I knew as Emily that fit with Irina's profile, places I've lived, places I've seen. She shares her own childhood memories.

When our food is done, and we're about thirty minutes away from her driver returning for her, I finally bring up Saturday. "It looks like I'll be able to join you. Tell me about it."

Helena thinks before speaking. "It's more formal than the auction you were at, so you'll need to dress accordingly. I'll bring you another mask to wear that night; I have many. I'll fetch you around eleven o'clock in the morning on Saturday. We'll drive and take the Channel Tunnel to Calais. Further transport will be waiting for us there."

"But where will we end up?" I ask.

Helena shakes her head. "I can't tell you that. Those are the rules of my family if you want to come with us. You can keep your hood off until we get to France, and then you'll have to wear it again. The festivities begin at five o'clock that evening, and the auction will take place around ten o'clock. If I win, we'll stay the night there and I'll get you back here Sunday evening. If I don't win, I'll get you back very late Saturday night or early on Sunday morning."

I start gathering plates on the table and stacking them. I frown. "I trust you and want to be there with you, Helena, but how would your family feel if you just disappeared overnight with me and I didn't tell you where we were going?"

Helena shakes her head. "They wouldn't allow it, but as we know, our families are different. This is one of the differences you have to accept if you want to come with me. And I hope you do. Having you there would make it all that much more special." Helena stands from the table and starts gathering the trays. "Let me take these to the kitchen," she says.

 _Fuck,_ I think. Knowing the location in advance is the difference between being able to plan or having to improvise. This is too big for improvisation; I'd never make it out alive.

Helena returns a few moments later and smiles shakily at me. "Will you come?"

Of course I will, but it does no good to let her or anyone listening to think I'd fold that easily. "I'll talk to Anna about it tonight and call you. I can't make the decision without consulting with her."

Helena glances upstairs and then back at me. "She's a little scary," she whispers with a smile.

I laugh. "We're all scary in our own way."

Helena laughs. "True."

At that moment, headlights cut through the dining room drapes. "My car is back," she says. "Can you let me know by tonight? I need to know so that there's a seat for you reserved on our transport. Otherwise, we can give it to someone else."

I walk towards her and kiss her passionately. "Of course I will. It will probably be fine, but I'll call you in a couple of hours."

Helena smiles and nods. I walk her to the door and watch her get in the car. As per routine, I watch until the car pulls through the gates. I don't rush upstairs to Derek. Clyde or Garcia has likely been watching this unfold on surveillance cameras, and they'll get him. I need a moment to figure out how to convince all of them that I can safely go into this blind, which is nearly impossible and something that would be rightfully classified as a suicide mission.

I pick up the nearly-empty bottle of wine and the two wine glasses from the dining room table and bring them to the sink. There, on a white tray that held our grilled vegetables, written in translucent, yellow dish soap, is one word:

 _Antwerp._

* * *

 _August 29, 2015  
Theydon Garnon, Essex, UK_

In 2001, on the wings of an embarrassingly botched pedophilia case, Belgium went through a major reorganization of its police force, splitting it in two - local police and federal police. The federal police was designed to operate similarly to the FBI. They pulled in consultants during the reorganization, and one such consultant was an up and coming superstar at Interpol, a former SIS agent, and a hero of the Royal Marines.

At the age of thirty-six, Clyde Easter walked with his head held high into the catastrophe that was the Belgium Police and helped reorganize it into something workable and efficient. The man Clyde suggested and who was ultimately appointed as Director of the Federal Police was a one Marcus Klaus, someone Clyde had served with in the Royal Marines. And Marcus Klaus still ran things to this day.

Clyde said he trusted Marcus just a fraction less than he trusted Emily, which was good enough for all of us.

Hotch had the right to contact Interpol if he felt there was a chance that one of his cases had crossed international waters. Interpol played the role of acting as the go-between - In this case, acting as a liaison between the FBI and Belgium Federal Police. Both Belgium Federal Police and Interpol could request discretion, they could extend help to Hotch on whatever terms they felt necessary.

All that really meant was that the BAU and any agents recruited to work with the BAU would be fine; they could return home when this was over with the necessary paperwork that justified any expenses and their choices, even if that paperwork was ultimately backdated.

This morning, Rossi hired a chartered plane under an assumed name to fly him and ten other people to Brussels. He and Hotch filled that plane with agents they hand-selected. Reid and JJ boarded, along with Ashley Seaver and a handful of other people they'd worked with throughout the years and trusted implicitly.

About the same time that plane took off, Clyde and Penelope left the estate. They drove through the UK to the Channel Tunnel. Garcia wanted to scope the whole thing out, figure out their computer systems, figure out how to hack in, and Clyde wanted to see how the staff was currently operating. Once in Calais, they'd board a plane with assumed identities to Brussels. And our plan would be finalized with the team and Marcus Klaus. The initial idea Clyde had was that we'd pull in members of Brussels's SWAT team, but only at the last minute.

It was our best option, but I hated it because I was trapped in this estate. We now knew that my GPS chip was in my calf, but we were uncertain of the technology and whether or not there would be some trigger once it was removed from my body.

So, I'd be sitting this one out. And JJ would be coming back here tomorrow to play Anna, at least from a window view. Garcia and Easter would return with her, and then Garcia and Easter would leave shortly after Emily and Helena left. There was no way JJ was staying in DC. We all felt this would be the safest place for her, and a place where she could play a necessary role.

In the game of "There's no way in fucking hell" we'd all been playing, putting a visibly pregnant JJ in that auction house was just about number one in our rule book given where we stood now.

And I was grounded. I didn't do well with being grounded.

I'm on the floor in Emily's bedroom, which at this point might as well be called my bedroom, too. The sun is lighting up a corner of the room, and I'm laying on the carpet in that patch of sunlight. It's been twenty-three days since I've spent any time out in the sun, and I'm going stir crazy.

"Hey," Emily says from behind me. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to make sure I don't get jaundice," I reply.

I hear her laugh, and then feel her move until she's laying behind me, her arm around my waist. "It's almost over," she says.

"I know. But I'm used to having everyone's back and I'm going to have to stay here and I don't know how to feel about that."

She's quiet and I'm quiet. She squeezes her arm around me.

"You'll get Ari, right?" I ask.

"I'll get them all, Derek. I promise you. And don't think of yourself as not participating. You had the most difficult role in all of this, and you kept it together and played it exactly as you needed to. No one else could have done it, given your circumstances."

I let myself absorb those words and then turn my body so I'm facing her. The roots of her hair have been touched up and her eyebrows re-dyed. I touch those red eyebrows with my fingertips and then run my thumb over her lips. "How long until your lips are back to normal?" I ask her.

She smiles. "A couple of months. It was collagen. It only lasts a few months."

I nod and stare into her eyes, this woman who I'd been sleeping naked next to for nearly two weeks now. With my heart thudding and my emotions swirling, I shut my eyes before I whisper, "It's not just Saturday night I'm thinking about. I'm wondering what happens on Sunday."

There is only silence and her breath against my face.

I open my eyes and find hers staring at me, now filled with tears. "I don't know," she whispers.

I'm searching for a response to that that doesn't sound too pathetic when she starts speaking in a rush, in a way I've never known her to speak when it comes to how she feels.

She pulls me to her more firmly and whispers, "I wish I did, but I know me. I'm vulnerable now and scared and needing you, and I don't want to make you any promises about what this looks like when it's over, because I know me. I know how I wall myself in. I don't want to do that. But I also don't want to offer you up the light at the end of tunnel and then turn it off."

It's honest. And it also makes my eyes sting. I know this about her, at least now. I know that her shutting me out has nothing to do with me, and in that moment, in a huge house that we have to ourselves overnight and fright and uncertainty in both our hearts, I don't care. I'll force myself to be okay with whatever happens when this is over, but right now I just want her.

I lean my lips towards hers, but the thing I think I'll always remember about that moment - that initial, beautiful re-contact - is that she closes the distance. She kisses me first.

* * *

When it finally happens, the kiss is like I remember it. First just a gentle, barely-there brush of skin that immediately unhinges me.

After JJ's wedding, when Derek drove me home and came up for coffee and kissed me in my kitchen, it was just like this - an assault on my system and carefully carved boundaries with just the simplest, slightest touch.

It was so easy to just let myself go back then, and I think I always knew that, always knew it would be that way; it was why he made me flustered when he flirted with me, and why I brushed him aside with sarcasm when he pushed too much.

That time, back in my condo in DC, I had a coffee mug in my hand that fell from my hands and clanked loudly on the counter when he first kissed me, but the noise was not enough to deter me; the rushing sound of my blood and heartbeat in my ears blocked it out. This time, I have nothing hard in my hands. There's one hand on the soft, cream carpet of my bedroom, and one hand clutching his t-shirt. And, this time, it's me who kisses him, who breaches the distance and makes that first, initial, soft contact.

And it's me who caves first and decides that's not enough. My tongue touches his bottom lip, and his mouth falls open and we are kissing like I've never kissed anyone before, not because the mechanics are different, but because the feelings are.

Ten seconds is all it takes. Ten seconds for me to forget about this case for a little bit, ten seconds for me to forget about the countless hours of frightening, unnerving and depressing sex I've had in the past couple of weeks. My body is a live wire in ten seconds and he is the only thing that can ground me.

We're suddenly on a short vacation from the world, and we're in the most gorgeous paradise ever.

I'm not sure who removes their shirt or pants first. I'm not sure if I help him or he helps me. I do know that when we're both completely naked, he stands and lifts me in his arms and we make it to the bed in a blur of limbs and motion.

There's one moment that reminds us where we are, when Derek is kissing his way down my body and I clamp my legs together firmly. "Derek," I stutter through gasping breaths, "I won't know for months if I'm truly disease-free."

I try to make my voice light, but his face appears above mine, his jaw clenched. I touch his cheeks, cupping them in my hands. Everything in me is channeling him, whispering, _Let's not ruin this._ He hears me and relaxes again and I reach over to my nightstand and open the drawer to where the condoms are. There is still a risk for him, but a minimal one, and he knows the deck of cards he's playing with and it's his choice.

He chooses me.

I'd like to say there were no tears that first time in that bed in an estate in Essex. I'd like to say that we just both forgot completely where we were and why we were there the whole time. I'd like to believe we both knew where we were going. But we had none of that.

Sometime after I had my first orgasm and before Derek let go, with our bodies connected and our arms around each other, we both had tears in our eyes. Not a flood, but a slow leak of awe and uncertainty.

Those emotions seem to embolden us, rather than deter us.

The night is a flurry of activity that makes me glad I grabbed the whole box of condoms. There's a whole room of toys down the hall that are designed to enhance sexual pleasure for some people, but they aren't something either of us ever wanted or needed, and if this night is anymore enhanced, I'm not sure I could take it. Pleasure is his hands skimming lovingly over my body, his lips on my neck and shoulders and breasts. Pleasure is laughing together when we both declare we are too exhausted for anymore, and then starting all over again.

Pleasure comes in the murky dawn, after we've napped for a few hours, when his arms are wrapped around me and his lips are against my ear. "I love you," he whispers.

I, as Emily Prentiss, had never uttered those words to another human being in a romantic setting. I'll forever remember how we were in that moment, my legs wrapped around his waist and crossed at the ankles and my arms around his back; him with one arm around my back, and one around my waist, his hand pressed against my lower back, holding me more firmly to him.

I'm holding him, but in my heart and mind, I feel myself falling, that feeling you get when you drop from a huge roller coaster, or even in a high-powered elevator, a brief moment of zero gravity when the falling is exciting, but you're glad when it's over and you've got your feet back under you.

That's what I feel inside me, the sensation of falling, but his arms are around me, holding me. And for the first time, I realize I'm okay in his arms with the idea of my feet not really touching the ground again.

I cling to him and whisper my greatest truth and my greatest fear in four breathless words. "I love you, too."


	14. Chapter 14

_August 31, 2015  
9:30AM_

I zip my elegant evening wear inside my garment bag; Garcia carefully selected the outfit in Brussels yesterday before she returned to our house with Clyde and JJ. The floor-length skirt is layered black silk with a leather lace-up placket that starts at my right hip and ends about mid-thigh. The silk top has a plunging neckline and is snug, but the liner has enough spandex in it that I'll have full range of motion. The shoes she selected are a relatively low heel.

Bottom line is that the outfit is easy to run in, because on a scale of one to ten, the odds of me needing to be able to move quickly at some point tonight is about a twelve.

Derek sits quietly on the bed and watches me go through the process of packing. I'm trying very hard not to act nervous, but the truth is, this is much more complex than anything I've ever undertaken before for the simple reason that we have no idea about the layout of the house I'm going to end up in, or where it actually is.

Helena said Antwerp, but we're guessing that's the closest major city; there's little doubt in our minds that this auction is not taking place in the middle of a city, but outside of it, in the isolation of the country. And I'm going to be the only one on the inside until the BAU, some recruited FBI agents, Clyde and Belgium SWAT is ready to go in, which won't happen until eyes are laid on all fourteen children, sometime around ten o'clock tonight.

We're banking on a moderately shaky, but intricately detailed plan. We're banking on the team being able to pinpoint my location. We're banking on there being cameras in this auction house just like the cameras I saw at Derek's auction house. Most importantly, we're banking on Penelope Garcia being able to hack into the video feed of the auction house from the guarded safety of a van. We need eyes inside if we're going to pull this off; more than just my two eyes, and we're going to need her to loop the feed that's seen on the inside so the cavalry can get in unseen.

I smile at Derek, who is staring at me and not doing a very good job at all of not acting nervous. Neither of us speak; everything we needed to say was said in bed earlier this morning. He found a multitude of ways to ask me to come back safely, both spoken and unspoken, and I found as many ways to answer him, to promise him I would.

I turn to look at the mirror over the dresser. My hair is done, my makeup is impeccable, my blue eyes practically glow with the way Penelope did my eyeshadow and eyeliner.

Helena told me to dress comfortably for the journey, and that we'd have time to change our clothing when we arrived, but wouldn't have time for much else. So my face and hair is ready to go, but my jewelry is packed in my bag. I'm wearing designer jeans tucked into boots and a black blouse that shows just enough cleavage.

The only thing out of the ordinary on my body is a necklace. The pendant is platinum and is an interlocking weave that forms a circle. It's simple and beautiful and I'd love it on its own, but what I love most about it is that it came from Marcus Klaus, and it's actually a speaker, untraceable on any body scanner until it's turned on. But once it's turned on, if the team can get within about three miles of the auction site, they'll be able to hear me.

Them being able to find me at all is going to rely on an exchange once we're on the channel train and heading into France.

I touch the necklace and glance at my manicured, fake nails that Clyde applied the night before, and JJ happily painted, us with our legs crossed and facing each other on the couch. Kind, wonderful JJ who walked into the house yesterday with Clyde and Garcia and broke down into a teary, beautiful mess when she saw me and Derek. Who sobbed even harder when he hugged her. Who then laughed and blamed it on pregnancy hormones. Who didn't raise an eyebrow when Derek gave her his room at bedtime before following me into mine; Penelope likely filled her in.

It's nine-thirty in the morning, and Helena said she'd be here a little after ten. She originally told me eleven on Tuesday night during dinner, so we know this means her driver is probably going to go over me and my belongings with a fine tooth comb before we leave this house.

Clyde comes into the room and Derek stands up. He touches my back and says, "I'll go get myself ready."

Clyde stands behind me so I can see his face reflected in the mirror. I turn to look at him and he hands me a pill and a glass of water. "That's going to wear off in about eight hours and you're going to need to take another one if the alcohol and cocaine are still flowing."

He hands me a small pill box with two pills that look like nothing more than aspirin. I slip it in my beaded purse, a purse that contains Irina Popov's passport and credit card and some cash.

"I know that night you went into the residence and saw the two teenagers, you sucked up a lot of cocaine," he says softly. "I could tell by your eyes when you got back to the hotel, and I don't blame you, but you're likely going to see far worse things tonight, and you can't do that."

I nod. "I know."

"Emily, when was the last time you carried or fired a gun outside of a tactical drill?" he asks.

I touch his arm. "A year and a half ago, when I went after JJ."

He rubs his temples and looks down.

"Headache?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No, just a lot of worries of my own."

I raise my eyebrows. "What happened to 'Piece of cake, Team. We've got this.'?"

He grins ruefully. "Piece of cake, Em. We've got this," he says while clapping his hands together.

I smile back. "That's better."

He straightens and gets back to business. "Don't throw your head back when you laugh if you're around Eric Clarke; it only accentuates your nose, even in a half-mask. And downplay your language skills. Don't go schmoozing with other buyers in their own language because you can. Eric knows about your language skills, probably."

I nod again. "Got it."

He puts his hands on my cheeks and draws my head towards him, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Don't try to do too much. If we don't get in, you play along as Irina and get out of there safely and we'll figure out a Plan B. And if we do get in, and I believe we will, remember you've got friends in there and you don't have to be everywhere at once." His lips stay against my forehead when he whispers, "No matter what happens, just remember you've got a life to live when this is over."

I pull away from him and inhale deeply, frantically blinking back the tears that could ruin my makeup. What the fuck is this nonsense?

I hug him. "It's all going to be fine. Tomorrow I'll buy you the most expensive bottle of scotch out there and we'll be toasting a victory."

He pulls out of the hug, pats my cheek and smiles. "That's my girl. Go finish getting Morgan ready and I'll see you downstairs."

I nod. We're setting the stage in case Helena's driver does another look-over. Clyde grabs my bags and purse and I follow him out of the room.

Derek is out of his clothes with a towel around his waist and waiting when I get to the room. He inhales deeply when he sees me and smiles. "You're beautiful."

I blush slightly. Words like this from him ricochet around in my head and heart when he says them. I'm not used to hearing them, and he's not used to being able to say them out loud. "Thank you," I say simply.

He steps back towards the wall and leans against it. I squat down and attach his ankles first. "As soon as we leave, Clyde will come in here and let you loose. This is the last time you'll ever have to be restrained like this."

"Promises, promises," he mutters.

I laugh and stand up and he puts his arms around me. "You go kick some ass, Emily Prentiss," he says before his kisses me.

We're standing like that, his legs spread eagle and strapped down and me in his arms, kissing like our lives depended on it, when we hear JJ clear her throat. "Sorry," she says. "They're at the gate."

My cheeks flush again and I turn to look at her. Her eyes are wide and she's barely containing a smile. I turn back to Derek and strap his wrists in. This is it, and I don't care that JJ is there. "I love you," I whisper.

"I love you, too," he says just as quietly.

"I'll see you in twenty-four hours, tops," I say with a smile.

He nods and I put the gag around his mouth. I grab the towel that's around his waist and tug it off his body. I walk out the door and hand the towel to JJ, who is waiting in the hallway. I'm about to head down the stairs and she needs to go hide, but she grabs my arm before I get to the first step.

"Em," she says.

I turn to look at her, at her eyes filling with tears. She smiles at me. "Come back home to us."

I smile and swallow a lump in my throat. I know she doesn't just mean this estate; she means DC. I squeeze her hand and make my way down the stairs where Clyde has just let Helena and her driver in the front door. Garcia is there, looking formidable as Anna.

Everything speeds up in my mind. I need to get in character and remain there for awhile. _I am Irina Popov,_ my inner dialogue starts up.

The driver opens my bags and looks through everything. He runs a wand over all of my belongings and then, surprisingly, packs them back up nicely. Anna is indignant through this process and mutters a lot of words like "ridiculous," "disrespectful," and "rude."

I, as Irina, try to reassure her. I repeat in different ways that I trust Helena, which mollifies Anna only slightly. When the driver gets to my body and starts running the wand over me, and then his hands, Anna stands up and steps towards him. "I think that's quite enough," she hisses.

The driver stops. He clears his throat and nods.

We're in the car minutes later and Helena asks for my phone. I shake my head at her, "I decided not to bring it. I trust you and know your family would prefer that."

Helena smiles and nods. She takes my hand in hers and we make the two-hour drive to the train station in companionable silence. Helena isn't fooling me, though. She's trying to act relaxed, but she's fairly shaking in excitement. The car pulls to the loading area and the driver shows our ticket. We're asked to show our passports, and then we're driving onto the train.

"I've never done this before," I say to Helena casually. "I've taken the channel train, but not in a car. Do we have to stay in the car the whole time?"

Helena shakes her head. "No, but we probably will."

"I was hoping to use the restroom," I say.

Helena pats my knee. "Of course. I could use the restroom myself."

When we are parked, we exit the vehicle and make a path to the bathroom. We're just rounding the corner when a man barrels into me, knocking me backwards onto the ground, tripping and falling on me in the process.

"I'm so sorry, madam," says a thick French accent. "Are you okay?"

I nod and feel something slide into the front pocket of my jeans. The man stands and apologizes again as he grabs my hand and helps me to my feet. He apologizes again once I'm standing, while I look him in the eyes - into the eyes of David Rossi for the first time in a year in a half.

"It's okay. I'm okay," I say a little shakily.

"Are you sure?" Helena asks, while glaring angrily at Rossi.

"It's fine. Just an accident."

We walk away and into the bathroom. When I'm in the stall, I take the small GPS unit out of my pocket and place it in my bra.

It's approaching two o'clock when the train stops and our car exits.

"Hood," says the driver.

Helena rolls her eyes and smiles at me. She puts the hood over my head and pats my leg.

We drive for maybe an hour before the car comes to a stop. Helena takes my hand and helps me from the vehicle. I can feel the breeze from the North Sea and hear voices.

There's a woman there with a German accent, and what sounds like a younger girl who is excited about the evening to come. My stomach rolls. And then a man with an American accent is in front of me. I feel my hand placed in his calloused, rough hand, and then a kiss on the skin, just below my knuckles. "I've so looked forward to meeting you," he says. "You purchased something I originally acquired."

Peter Daniels. I'm thankful for the hood.

I squeeze his hand and laugh lightly. "Then I am forever grateful for you."

He laughs and helps me board onto what I know immediately is a helicopter. I'm buckled into my seat and I feel Helena's lips near my ear. "We're just waiting for two more," she whispers.

Ten minutes later, after another man and woman arrive, the whir of the helicopter blades start up. It's disorienting in the hood, but I determine that Peter Daniels is the pilot. I don't know if there are people seated facing me or if there's anyone staring at me. What I do know is that it can't be this easy, that there are probably dozens and dozens of people attending today's festivities, all arriving in various modes of transportation, and I'm probably going to be checked over again before I'm allowed totally inside.

I calculate and determine that we're likely a thirty-minute helicopter ride to Antwerp. Twenty minutes later, I fake a coughing fit, bending my body forward in my seat. I remove the GPS unit from my bra and clutch it in my hand.

I feel Helena patting my back, and I sit up again and clear my throat. It's about twenty minutes after that that I feel the helicopter making its descent. I wait until we're on the ground and things quiet a bit. I wait for the sounds of people moving and I reach for my own seat belt. In the process, I shove the GPS unit in the crease between the back and seat of my chair.

I feel Helena's hand in mine and I stand. I'm lead out of the helicopter, down a long path, and then up some stairs. Peter Daniels speaks to me and kisses my hand again. "I have things to attend to. It's a big year for my brother and me, but I look forward to speaking with you at the party."

My hood is removed a minute later, and I blink in the low light of the foyer of a house. I glance around - this place is elaborate, but not big enough for an auction of this magnitude.

"This way," Helena says, while smoothing down my hair.

She hands me my bags and then picks up her own. I'm lead down a hallway and then down a staircase. At first I think we're heading into a much larger basement, but I realize quickly that I'm wrong. I'm standing behind a line of people and it takes a couple of minutes to absorb what I'm seeing. There's a scanner here, just like you'd see at a security checkpoint at an airport.

I follow along without question, placing my bag on the belt and then stepping inside a body scanner. Then we're in an opulent tunnel of marble and low lighting. My bags and Helena's are placed on a cart. Helena grabs the handle of the cart with one hand and links the fingers of her other hand with mine.

 _You're a pedophile and a sociopath,_ Clyde said the other night while laying on the sofa at the estate in Theydon Garnon. _You've been lucky for years, probably molesting children but never getting caught. Your pathology progresses and you take a job at your Alma mater. You could have formed a cult and taken your followers into reclusiveness, but cults don't go unnoticed when they're structured like that. So you use your skills to read people and find yourself fourteen followers. You groom them, starting slow. You get them to buy in, and then you get them hooked on the depraved sex and you have evidence of their actions, and they know it. Instead of hiding them away like most people of your kind, you do the opposite: You let them go; you shroud them in the power that comes with trust. They provide you with children, and you provide them with money and power. How do you start?_

 _Small,_ I said to him. _One or two children. You've been involved with pedophilia for years, in various countries. You know people who would be interested in getting their hands on the children you have. You sell them and share the wealth with your disciples. At some point, it becomes like a drug to them, and your plan grows. You become The Minotaur. You make examples of people who break your trust, probably with public murders. You keep your family safe by taking care of any problems that arise. Eventually, your followers start thinking all of this was their idea, that it was something that grew by committee decision, when you actually orchestrated the whole thing. The first few years are simpler, but by 1999, the year Sam was taken, everything is in full swing. Every year you probably pull in over twenty million dollars with your auctions, if not more, that you share with your followers. They're in so deep that they no longer see anything wrong with what they're doing; it's just a way of life. You know they'd die for you._

 _Exactly,_ said Clyde. _Which means they'd kill for you, too. And you, Emily, need to be prepared for both._

I come back to the present. Ahead of us in the tunnel is a man holding the hand of a boy who can't be more than twelve years old. I see a woman in her sixties with what looks like a pre-teen girl. These children were likely purchased in years' past, and Derek and I discussed this, too, one night in bed - what happened to the children after they age. " _Some probably stay with their purchasers and it becomes their way of life, too. Some fade into oblivion, returned and resold until they're far removed from the group. Maybe a few are like Sam; they come back but are seen as hopeless and harmless. And then there are the strong-willed ones,"_ I said.

" _Murdered?"_ Derek asked.

" _Probably,"_ I said softly.

I clear my head and clear my throat. "This is impressive," I say to Helena as we follow people through the tunnel.

Helena nods. "And necessary. There will be about one hundred people here this evening, people who have been buyers for years. We arrive at different ends. They've been arriving throughout the day. But we can't keep careful track of them all year, so the scanners are just a security measure to make sure they're still as trustworthy as they were the previous year."

I squeeze Helena's hand.

She smiles, "Don't be nervous. I'll take care of you tonight and you'll love this. We've only ever had one incident at these auctions, and it was taken care of swiftly. We're well-prepared, and we're perfectly safe."

Panic is settling over me like a heavy blanket. It dawns on me what is likely going on here; I've seen a place like this once before. In 2002, my first case with Interpol, I went in as a heroin dealer, and walked a tunnel that spanned the border between France and Spain, except that tunnel was made of dirt and not nearly as extravagant as this one.

This tunnel has probably been around for centuries, first to smuggle contraband, and then, possibly to smuggle Jewish people out of Belgium during World War II. It was likely dirt for a very long time, but now it's been outfitted in rich marble and tile and expensive lighting and is back to being used for nefarious purposes. There are cameras every few feet in the ceiling.

Helena gave me the nearest big city to our location, but she didn't give everything away. She may be infatuated with me, but after over two decades, she wouldn't be able to break entirely from her family for me.

 _I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto,_ I say to myself.

No, I'm pretty sure the GPS unit and the helicopter are in Belgium, at a house that's located about a thirty minute drive outside of Antwerp. And I'm almost positive as we get to the end of the tunnel twenty minutes later and start making the climb upstairs into a different residence that I'm now in the Netherlands.

* * *

 _August 31, 2015  
4:00pm_

Clyde and Garcia left over four hours ago, Garcia laying low in the backseat of the car. They're taking separate paths to Belgium - Garcia by plane under a different identity, and Clyde by ferry. Garcia is already in Antwerp, and Clyde should be arriving soon.

Since they left, JJ and I have tried to keep ourselves distracted, first by talking and then by going into the theater room and watching a movie. We're failing miserably at distraction: my knee won't stop bouncing and she can't stop looking at the phone Garcia left with her that's been carefully encrypted so that anyone who might intercept texts will get nothing but innocent gibberish between Clyde and Anna, messages about Clyde being out running errands.

She's made several passes by the front windows of this house, in a brown wig that matches Anna's hair color and style, and wearing clothing that hides her baby bump.

Two and a half hours ago, JJ received a text that let us know Rossi had delivered the GPS unit, and Emily was now being tracked.

The movie has just ended, and I couldn't for the life of me remember what I'd just watched for the past two hours. I feel JJ's hand on my thigh, stilling my shaking leg. "It's Emily. She'll be okay," she says.

"I know. I just feel like this is my battle and she's fighting it for me. It was my error and my cockiness in questioning Daniels without waking any of you to let you know my thoughts that landed me here, and landed her in this mess."

JJ leans her body against mine, rests her head on my shoulder. "You should have seen her after she flew to New York. She didn't hesitate making this decision, not once. She's going to make it back."

I nod and lean my head back against the leather sofa, closing my eyes.

"Do you think she'll come back to DC?" asks JJ.

I keep my eyes shut and take a deep breath. "I don't know."

Just then JJ's phone dings. "The GPS unit stopped moving. Just outside Ertbrand, Belgium, about thirty minutes from Antwerp. They're looking at aerial maps of the property now and are heading that way," she says.

My heart flutters in my chest and my knee starts shaking again.

* * *

 _August 31, 2015  
5:30PM_

" _She must not have the necklace turned on yet. I can't hear her," says Garcia._

" _Are you in?" Clyde asks._

" _Almost," she replies and types on her keyboard. "There," she says._

 _Clyde, Garcia, Hotch, Rossi, Reid and Marcus Klaus gather around the screens set up in the nondescript van that sits about two miles away from a small estate in Ertbrand, Belgium. They stare at nothing - nothing in the hallways or any of the rooms from the home's security cameras._

" _What the hell?" asks Hotch. "Are they blocking us?"_

" _No," says Garcia. "Impossible."_

 _The images flash from one camera to the next. "Wait," exclaims Reid. There on the front porch are two guards._

 _Garcia touches the screen. "Helena's driver."_

" _Where in the bloody fuck is everyone else? Show me the outside cameras," says Clyde._

 _Garcia switches the image so they are staring at a long driveway and bricked parking lot of sorts. Clyde reaches forward and touches the screen, placing his finger over empty vehicles and three empty helicopters, counting. "Four, eight, ten, sixteen…." all the way up to forty-eight._

" _Transportation for forty-eight people. This can't be smaller than Morgan's auction," Clyde says._

" _Did they gather them and transport them by bus elsewhere? And Emily felt she needed to leave the GPS unit behind for some reason?" asks Hotch._

 _Clyde pulls out the aerial map. He traces his fingers over the property. "No bus," he mutters. "Too dangerous to put that many people together in a vehicle, in case it's pulled over. Not enough land for a plane to take off. Guards still at the property, but no other people. Emily thought she'd arrived, so she left the GPS unit in the helicopter, but she hadn't really arrived. Helena's falling in love with her, but she still follows rules; she said Antwerp, but it's not Antwerp. Someplace close."_

 _Everyone is silent, watching him. He rubs his temples and takes a bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket, shaking some pills into his hand and popping them in his mouth, swallowing them without water._

 _He touches the map again and sighs out, "Ohhhh." He looks up. "Penelope, pull up an aerial map of what's on the other side of these trees here," he demands._

 _Garcia turns to her computer and starts typing. Soon, they're all staring at the roof of a much larger estate._

" _Just a little over a mile from this house, but we can't hear Emily because this van is too far away, and because of the forest that separates the properties," says Clyde._

" _The Netherlands," says Marcus. "An underground tunnel?"_

" _Ron Menard," spits Clyde while nodding. He looks at Hotch. "Head of the Royal Marechaussee, the Netherlands Central Police. I don't trust that slimy bastard as far as I can throw him. It wouldn't surprise me if he was a guest at the party tonight."_

" _You think Emily's there?" asks Reid._

" _Yes, I do. But I don't know how we're going to get this van, our equipment and our people across the border. We can't involve the Netherlands police," says Clyde._

 _Marcus has no issue with the lack of protocol. This is a big case and if he gets the big fish, it will bring pride back to the Belgium police, after over a decade of scrutiny. He claps Clyde on the shoulder. "Seems like a good night to transport some livestock."_

 _Clyde grins and looks at his watch. "Just like old times. We have about three hours if we want to have the time to see inside and plan. Think we can pull it off?"_

" _We've worked with shorter timelines," Marcus replies._

 _Clyde looks at the BAU. "I hope you enjoy the smell of hay and horses."_

 _Garcia, who's been living with Clyde for over three weeks now and knows he is brilliant and is not in any way as callous or detached as originally perceived, smiles slightly, trusting him. The rest of the team just stares._

* * *

 _August 31, 2015  
10:15PM_

When Helena first told me that the "entertainment" began at five o'clock, I imagined the horrors I might witness. Nothing - absolutely nothing - in my imagination could have prepared me for what I actually had to witness.

Helena had no reason to feel like she needed to prepare me. I'd gotten here under the guise that my sister had been caught with a young child and was chased by the FBI and killed. I'd gotten here by having sex with Helena and two of her brothers while I was in a room and watching a young teenage girl with three grown men. I'd gotten here by making a purchase of my own, and suggesting that Anna and her parents had recently acquired a child.

But none of those made-up stories were like the reality. And nothing could have prepared me for the veil of absolute psychosis that Helena kept almost entirely hidden, right up until it fell away while we were dressing. In the safety of this house, when I had passed all of the tests they'd thrown at me and proved myself to be trustworthy and as infatuated with her as she was with me, she offered up the totality of her shattered, disgusting mind and heart.

We arrived at the estate just before five o'clock, walked through a narrow hallway and walked up another flight of stairs. I could hear people talking and laughing, but Helena guided me on, up two more flights of stairs and into a bedroom, a place for us to change. She was chattering excitedly and hopefully.

"Ever since you purchased your mongrel, I've been thinking of wanting something of my own again," she said. "There's a special one here tonight, a young boy, with brown curly hair like mine and eyes as blue as yours. He could be ours, if I can win him. But I know many people want him. Still, the young girl is just as desirable, and she'll go up first. I hope my competitors have spent their money before they get to my young boy."

 _He could be ours. Holy fuck,_ I thought as I pulled my skirt on.

Helena smiled appreciatively when she saw how exposed my right leg was in the skirt. "That's lovely," she said.

I kissed her and whispered, "I truly hope you get what you want, with everything in me. You deserve it."

Helena smiled and ran her finger over my cheek. "Thank you, Irina. I had a young boy once, many years ago. His name was Sam. I called him my little Samurai. But he was weak-willed and already broken when I purchased him. I sold him off again, the next year. He turned into riffraff after that, and when I first saw him again a few years back, he didn't even recognize me."

I cleared my throat and managed to smile at her, thinking of a young, nine-year-old Sam O'Brien. At his first therapy session when Sam was fourteen years old, he'd talked of a woman he called Mistress that he couldn't describe with any detail and thought was named Migs, and he'd drawn countless pictures of a pitchfork in a sea of red. _Meaghan Helena Freeman. Meg?_ I wondered. I thought of the location of Helena's tattoo, and I could only imagine how many days and countless hours that poor, young boy was forced to stare at that tattoo with drug-heavy eyes.

I pulled on the top that went with the skirt and Helena smiled appreciatively. She kissed the swell of my breast where it rose from the corset-like top. I laughed and reached for my make-up and jewelry bag. "Excuse me, milaya moya," I said.

I went to the bathroom and gave myself the _Irina Popov_ pep talk in the mirror and managed not to throw up. I adjusted what I might see tonight in my imagination as best I could, adding a harsher layer to it. I put on my jewelry and touched up my makeup. Helena entered the bathroom right after I turned the speaker on on my necklace. I hoped Clyde would figure it out and find me, because I knew too much now. This had to end tonight; there could be no Plan B.

When we were both dressed with our venetian masks on, we walked hand in hand down the stairs and joined the party. The amount of food and quality of wine was impressive, and my mouth watered slightly despite how absolutely nauseated I was. I hadn't eaten for several, long hours, and had barely managed breakfast that morning as it was.

I reached my hand out to grab the tongs that rested on a bed of large prawns when another hand bumped into mine. "Sorry, Ma'am" said a soft voice.

I looked down into the face of a young boy who couldn't have been more than ten. His eyes were glassy, but he was dressed in a tuxedo. He wasn't wearing a mask. I glanced around and realized none of the young people in the room were wearing masks.

I smiled at him and handed him the tongs. I ate and drank and tried to forget his young, innocent face. I mingled. I danced with Peter Daniels who asked me if it would be possible at some point in the future for him to come visit me and my purchase.

"My mongrel?" I asked while brushing my hand seductively across his chest. "Yes, I think that could be arranged, but only after I share him with Helena."

Peter smiled like he knew the whole story, and of course he did. There was probably very little about me that Helena had not told her entire family.

I found other people I thought were those with tattoos, though it was difficult to know for sure because of the masks, and because of the fact that the pictures we had of them were so old. Eric Clarke was there, though, and spoke with me several times. He said things that were meant to be funny, and I laughed, but I didn't throw my head back, and I laughed behind my hand so he couldn't see my teeth.

At seven o'clock, the lights flashed and bells chimed. People put their plates and glasses down and excitedly started moving. Helena held my hand and guided down the hallway and up three narrow flights of stairs. This auction area was far larger than Derek's. Still three stories, but wider. I guessed perhaps fifty rooms looking down on a stage.

The first show featured teenagers and older people and I managed to watch in mock fascination with Helena. The second show featured much younger children and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. The third, and final, show before the auction started featured the two "pure" children from last year, as Helena explained to me, where their owners could show off the progress.

"Next year, that could be us up on stage with my boy," she said, her eyes taking on the hazy quality of lunacy as the evening had progressed.

I stood up to pour myself a glass of wine from the small table in the corner of our auction room. Then I returned and stood behind Helena, my hands on her shoulders, where I could pretend to be watching while looking away and going someplace else in my mind.

 _I am Irina Popov,_ I kept saying to myself as ten o'clock approached...

The auction is about to start now, and I'm trying to remain in character, but the truth is, I'm failing. I'm drinking wine to wash down the bile in my throat and thinking of Clyde and Hotch not finding me, and I'm failing miserably to stay in my undercover role.

I am Emily Prentiss, and I'll never be able to unsee any of this. My sorrow for those children is almost overriding my anger, and I'm on the verge of a breakdown. No one can possibly live through anything like what those children are living through. No one should have to witness anything like this. This is a thousand times worse than anything I physically had to endure in the past few weeks, a million times worse. I clench my jaw and try to hang in there.

The two young children are carried off the stage when the adults are finished with them, and the lights dim. Helena stands quickly and turns her body towards mine. She kisses me and pushes me back towards to the door, against the wall. "This is it," she murmurs while her lips trail from my cheek to my neck.

 _I'm Emily Prentiss and nothing is ever going to be the same for me again,_ I say in my mind.

Helena holds my hand and brings me back to the window and the stage fills with light. The curtains are opening and I'm trying to grasp onto something, anything.

 _Derek survived. Derek survived and is a wonderful, kind, passionate, strong, amazing man. Derek went back in with me and didn't lose his shit, and I owe it to him to do the same now. Hang in there, Emily. That's what he'd be telling you right now. You hang in there._

I say this to myself as the curtains swing fully open revealing a stage. I count. Twelve young children, six boys and six girls, chained and naked and slumped in a drugged stupor in chairs on the stage. And behind them, on a raised platform, Adrian Stancu, The Minotaur, shirtless and in his hooded mask. To the right, slightly lower, is Peter Daniels and his brother Robert, and a shrouded body in the chair next to them. _Ari._ To Adrian's left sits Eric Clarke and another shrouded body, that of the little girl that's up for auction this year.

I'm not sure how it starts or what alerts anyone that there's a problem. All I know is that the lights in the ceiling of our room start flashing and Helena stands in a panic.

I stand, too, and step back slightly, not knowing what exactly is going on.

A panel in the wall opens automatically and Helena reaches for a gun that's in the compartment, along with a handful of pills.

She turns and points the gun at me just as the smell of acrid smoke fills my nose and the gray cloud of a smoke bomb starts creeping in from under the door.

And my anger is back in an instant. My sorrow and horror is temporarily gone. Clyde and the team found me and my desperation dissipates.

I stare at the gun in front of my face, and brace my body to lunge at Helena.

"Irina," she screams, her voice shrill. "Get behind me."

She's not aiming at me, but at the door.

I make a panicked look on my face and move to stand behind her; as I do, I look through the window and see Adrian, Peter, Robert and Eric do a disappearing act. They're there on the stage one second, and then under it a second later, leaving the children behind.

"Take this," Helena says, handing me a pill. "If you think we're caught, swallow it. It's better than what's in store for you."

I can only assume the pill that's now in my hand is cyanide. I drop it into the bodice of my shirt.

"What's happening?" Helena shrieks in fear as more smoke fills the room. She moves her hand and goes to place a pill in her mouth, in a complete panic.

"No!" I shout. I reach over and push her hand harshly and the pills go flying. "Don't give up, milaya moya," I say softly. "I love you. Let me take the gun. I'm experienced with things like this and I can get you out. I don't want to lose you."

She turns to face me, tears falling down her face. I kiss her softly, quickly, and I feel the gun hitting my hand.

As soon as I have that cool metal in my hand, I kick out my leg, sweeping her legs from under her. She falls on the ground and looks at me in shock.

I drop on top of her, and drop the accent. I let Emily out.

"Can't have you killing yourself, Meaghan. We're going to want your statement," I say as I bring the butt of the gun down on her her head.


	15. Chapter 15

_August 31, 2015  
10:15PM_

Helena had been on the brink of a complete psychotic break with the excitement of the auction, and the excitement of possibly buying a child to make "ours." When the smoke started filling the room and the lights in the ceiling went off, she panicked and completely lost it.

I almost lost it, too, right before her. But getting the gun and knocking Helena unconscious had shifted things in my mind. I feel strong, insightful, quick Agent Prentiss melting and molding within me for the first time in a long time. It's a welcome, powerful feeling.

Helena told me her family was prepared for something like this when we were walking in the tunnel earlier, and I'm absolutely certain that it wasn't just guns and cyanide pills. These people did not build this intricate system of GPS monitoring, body scanners and an underground tunnel to leave their only exit as a narrow, crowded staircase.

They would have left themselves a way out.

I peek into the hallway and it's as I expect. _Fish in a barrel,_ I think. There's a backlog of people on the stairway trying to escape the smoke.

I can guess how this went down. Between the team, the recruited FBI agents, Clyde and Belgium SWAT, we had maybe twenty people who got in, including me. There were at least one hundred people in bidding rooms, plus "the family," plus the children. Clyde and Hotch banked on the staircase, set off the smoke bombs, and drove people from the rooms. Bidders who were not "family" probably thought there was a fire when the lights in the ceiling started flashing and the smoke filled the hallways.

They'd head towards the stairs and outside, and be met with the guns of the good guys.

 _Where would "the family" have gone?_ I ask myself.

"Garcia," I say into my necklace as I crush the pills on the ground with the heel of my shoe. "There's got to be another way out. I wish I could hear you. I'm going to look."

I check the clip in the gun to make sure I have a full round, take a deep breath, and open the door.

I hear screams from down the stairs, and I know that the bidders, the people at the bottom of the stairs, are coming face to face with the guns of the SWAT team right now. I go the opposite direction, room by room, finding them empty.

In the last room, I see an open panel, much like the room I was in with Helena, where a gun and pills were. But beneath that there's another, larger open panel. I slide my body against the wall next to the panel so no one inside the dark space can see me. I glance up in the corner of the room - there's not a camera in here like there was in our bidding room. _Shit,_ I think. Garcia can't see me right now.

I hear voices from inside the dark space beyond the panel. "Wait for Helena," someone hisses. A female voice, also British. The woman I met at one of the residences. Claire.

"There's no time," a male voice responds. Kristoff, I think.

The panel starts to slide shut and I wait until the last second before I dive forward, jamming my gun into the slot. It must have some sort of tension release, because the panel door hits my gun and starts sliding back open.

"Who's there?" a voice whispers from slightly below me, in the darkness.

I move to the side again, away from the opening and raise my gun. Hoping like hell that no one comes back to look, I raise my voice an octave and try to mask any discrepancies with pain. "It's Helena," I groan pathetically in a British accent. "I think I broke my ankle. Irina tried to pull me down the stairs and I got trampled. I had to fight my way back up. Just go. I'll catch up. And if I can't, I'll hold them off."

"Helena," Claire's voice whispers sadly.

"Just go," I hiss back. "Be safe."

I hear the sounds of movement, lower down in the opening in the wall. When I'm certain they're far enough away, I whisper into my necklace. "Garcia, I hope you can hear me. There's another exit, opposite side of the staircase, in the auction room at the end of the hall. There's a panel in the wall. There's probably one on every floor. I'm not sure where it goes. I'm going in."

I slide into the opening in the wall and my shoes softly hit a metal landing. It's pitch black, and I'm thankful. It means I'm invisible, the only light the soft glow of small buttons above the panel opening. Open and close. I'm in a small metal shaft; three walls, the landing and then an opening and a ladder. I close this panel, just in case Helena wakes up before anyone can contain her. I tuck the gun into the back of my skirt and start climbing down. When I reach the second floor landing, I see another panel. I hit the button to open it. When it's open, I can hear the faint sounds of gunshots in the house.

When I reach the first floor panel, I stop. I can hear voices below me again.

"Where's everyone else?" Adrian says in a slightly panicked voice. These people may have planned, but they never anticipated something of this magnitude.

"They didn't make it," says Kristoff.

"Helena might be coming," Claire says desperately.

I get to my knees and peek my head in the ladder opening, looking down. There's a faint glow about two stories down, and I can just make out the tops of heads. They're not speaking loudly, but their voices echo up the metal tube I'm in.

"Help me gather these things. Then, you and you, go through the east tunnel. You and Kristoff, take the south tunnel. Pete, take Eric and your brother west, and sprint. Eric, take this so you can monitor. I'll wait here a few minutes in case anyone else shows. We'll be counting on you, Pete."

"Yes, Master," Peter says.

I see shadowy movement below me, and I stand quietly. I hit the button to open the panel on the first floor and nearly have a heart attack when Clyde and Hotch are right there on the other side. Behind them is Reid and two people with SWAT vests on. I put my finger to my lips and point down.

I pull myself inside the bidding room. It would do no good for us to drop below just yet. Talk about fish in a barrel; they'd pick us off one by one.

"We"ve got her," Clyde whispers into his mic. He tosses me a bag.

"The children?" I ask quietly as I pull a pair of pants out of the bag.

"We got them all. Rossi's backstage with them."

I smile slightly and kick off my shoes. I hand Clyde the gun I took from Helena. Casually, I undo the leather lace-up placket that's keeping my skirt on. I've changed like this in front of Clyde several times through the years, but never in front of Hotch or Reid. I don't give it much thought, though. There's no time, and my modesty has pretty much been shot to shit over the past few weeks.

"How many of the family?" I ask as my skirt falls to the floor and I quickly tug on the too-large black tactical pants, cinching up the drawstring. These were probably extra SWAT gear.

"Six. Plus Helena, who's still unconscious. The rest probably got out this way," Clyde says.

"So there's eight below us?" Hotch asks as I start pulling on boots, which, thankfully, are only just a little too large. I'll be able to run just fine.

"Probably," I say as I straighten and reach for the vest. I put it on my body and look at Clyde, who's clipping a mic to my vest and putting an earpiece in my ear. "Daniels is taking the west tunnel below, and that's where I'm going," I tell him firmly.

Clyde grabs my chin and forces me to look him in the eyes. I do so, and my earpiece crackles, "Emily," Garcia sighs emotionally in my ear.

Clyde's not looking for signs of too many drugs or too much alcohol; he's looking to make sure my head is totally the game. I must pass whatever psychic test he's imposing on me because he hands me a sub-machine gun on a strap and says, "Lead on, Prentiss."

I nod. I sling the gun over my shoulder and let it rest against my back so it doesn't clank against the ladder as I climb down. I hear Hotch say, "Garcia, we're going in," as I go back through the panel, get on the ladder, and start climbing down. I look up in time to see that Clyde is the next person out before everything is enveloped in darkness again. Down we climb until the light below us gets a bit brighter. I hear shuffling and heavy breathing. I reach up and grab Clyde's ankle. _Stay put._

I climb silently lower two rungs and my feet hit a landing a few feet above floor level. I step on it quietly and crouch down. I can see Adrian, but there's an outcrop of stone here, and he can't see me. He's stacking what looks like computer equipment and paperwork in a cart. I know if we spook him, he'll swallow a pill and kill himself.

I wait and watch. He grabs the cart and pulls it near the landing, heading towards a tunnel. At just the right moment, I jump off the landing and land hard against his back. He goes down and his face hits the packed dirt of the floor with a sickening smack.

"Hello, Adrian," I whisper in his ear in my Irina accent. "Remember me?"

His face turns toward the side and I see his right eye, surprised. I hear more people hopping off the landing.

"I really want to shoot you right now, Adrian Stancu. You deserve to die for your disgusting crimes, but I think I'll enjoy hearing about all the nasty things that happen to you in prison even more."

Handcuffs appear in front of my face and I grab Adrian's wrists and get one cuff on. Clyde nudges me off and hauls Adrian up, dragging him to the metal pole that holds up the landing. He cuffs his other wrist so he's chained to the pole.

Hotch shines a flashlight in Adrian's face. His nose and mouth are bleeding. He eyes me and then he starts laughing, blood bubbling from his mouth.

I rear back and kick his face with my boot. That shuts him up.

"It's his labyrinth," Reid suddenly says as he surveys the dimly lit tunnels. These aren't fancy; just packed dirt and wooden supports, with dull light bulbs hanging ever ten feet or so. "In Dante's Inferno, it says the Minotaur guards an underground labyrinth."

"Well fuck the sick bastard for being thorough. We need to split up and be quick. You two go that way," Clyde says while pointing to the SWAT team. "Hotch and Reid, take that tunnel."

I'm already taking off down what I think is the west tunnel. I don't go very many strides before I see a ladder on my left. I'm pretty sure it's the one that's under the stage. I mentally think of as much of the layout of the house as I know.

A second later, Clyde is running beside me. He sets a steady, fast pace we can both maintain for a few miles. "I think we're heading back towards Belgium. I think this tunnel is parallel to the one I came in on," I say.

The tunnel turns slightly here and there, and the crackling and chatter from the mic in my ear silences; we're too far away and too far underground. It's just me and Clyde right now.

We run in silence for at least a mile in the dim light cast by the dull, dusty light bulbs in the ceiling.

Suddenly, the tunnel veers sharply to the right, and I know we're moving away from that marbled entrance tunnel. We hear the distant sound of a gunshot, but it's impossible to tell if it's coming from behind us or in front of us.

Ten minutes later, we turn a corner and almost don't stop in time before we trip over it. "It" being a body on the ground.

"Robert Daniels," Clyde says while staring at the open, dead eyes, and the bullet hole through his forehead.

"Why would Peter shoot him?" I whisper.

We're both breathing heavily and Clyde is staring at my face. Suddenly, his eyes widen and I know he's figured out exactly why. He steps towards me and places his hand over my mouth, to block the sound of my breath. I watch him hold his breath as well, and then I hear it, but just barely. It comes from somewhere above us, the sound of a helicopter starting up.

I move my head to free my mouth, and reality and dread and blind fear rush through me as I catch up with Clyde's mind. "Robert took Ari," I breathe out. "Peter doesn't know Irina is on the inside, and Irina doesn't know his name, nor has she seen his full face. He thinks the only person who can truly link him to any of this is Derek."

"I know," Clyde says grimly. "He's not going back for the family. He's cleaning up house and going for the slim hope of getting away with it."

"And he's got Eric Clarke. We've got to get out of here!" I cry.

I move to take off in a full sprint further down the tunnel, but Clyde grabs my wrist. "Stay with me, Em. There are helicopters on the property on the Netherlands side; we don't know what's at the other end of this tunnel or where it leads. If it goes back to towards the house in Belgium, there are helicopters there, too, but Daniels could have disabled them.

I'm torn, but agree with Clyde's reasoning. It will put Daniels about forty minutes ahead of us, but following this path and arriving someplace without a helicopter would be worse. I turn and we start sprinting back the way we came. My heart is pounding with exertion and fear, but adrenaline is keeping me moving at a fast pace. I keep waiting for the crackle to start up in my earpiece again.

We're nearly back to where we started when it does. First I hear broken words, but when I shout "Garcia!" into my mic, I get no response yet. It sounds like Hotch, Reid and SWAT caught up to the other four. Their tunnels must have been shorter and they were sitting ducks when the good guys caught up to them, as they waited for Daniels to show up in a helicopter.

"Garcia!" I shout again. This time she answers me.

"Emily!"

"Daniel's took off in a helicopter. He's got Eric Clarke with him. He's about forty minutes ahead of us. We'll call reinforcements when we're in the air. We think he's heading to Theydon Garnon. Call JJ."

I don't head back all the way back to the landing. Instead, I grab onto the ladder I passed when we first went into this tunnel. I climb up and I find the button to open a panel that's above my head. I emerge, Clyde right behind me, onto the stage. I jump backstage and it's absolute mayhem - EMTs and SWAT looking over naked, crying, drugged, bewildered children. I spot Rossi with a young boy wearing an FBI jacket in his arms. _Ari._

"Which way?" I scream at Clyde. He's had the advantage of seeing more of the layout through surveillance video than I have.

He leads the way to a staircase and up a flight of stairs. I see a flock of people sitting on the ground, wrists bound with zip ties, and more children, the children who were at the party, being gently held to the side by SWAT members and Marcus Klaus. One boy, the boy I saw reaching for shrimp earlier tonight, is crying and reaching his arms out. "Mistress," he sobs.

"Get in the air as soon as you can. Back to Theydon Garnon!" Clyde shouts at Marcus.

We turn away from the nightmarish scene and Clyde leads me outside. I see a helicopter in the distance and pick up my pace. When I reach the helicopter, I realize Clyde isn't beside me anymore. I turn and he's a few feet back, kneeling on the ground, his hands clamped on his head.

"Clyde!" I call out.

He stands and shakes his head and jogs towards me. "I'm fine. Just winded," he shouts.

I climb in the chopper and Clyde gets into the pilot's seat. He hands me a flashlight and I shine it at the control panel. Clyde grabs a knife from his pocket and pries a portion loose. I watch him cut two wires and twist them together and then the whir of the blades start up.

"How long?" I ask.

"No wind. Probably an hour and fifteen minutes."

An hour and fifteen minutes? That will put us at Theydon Garnon a little after 12:30AM. They took me on a nearly five-hour journey to get me here to make sure I wasn't being followed.

As the helicopter lifts off, I lean my head against the seat and take some deep breaths. I haven't run this much, this fast in a long time. I think of the weapons at the house, and JJ and Derek. They can take Daniels and Clarke, I tell myself.

And then Garcia's voice crackles in my ear with barely-contained tears. "JJ's phone is going straight to voicemail. I think Eric is jamming the cell tower near the house. I'm trying to break through."

* * *

 _September 1, 2015  
12:15AM_

JJ and I sit in the surveillance control room of the house and wait.

When Garcia's text came through at 10:35PM it stated: _Emily safe. With Clyde, Hotch and Reid. There are underground tunnels and they're going after the family who got away._

At that point, I wandered upstairs and sat in one of the chairs in the surveillance room. I'm not sure why - just someplace different to be. JJ followed me and sat in the other chair. My knee bounced and I kept grabbing her phone and looking at it constantly for about thirty minutes, at which point she gently took it from my hands and slid it down the desk away from me.

"It's a huge operation," she said. "It's going to take time, but no news is good news. It means they're still all safe."

"Or it means someone is coming here in person to tell us they're not," I replied.

"Don't say that. Garcia would let us know right away. She's just busy and there's no news yet." JJ pulled her chair closer to mine and took my hand in hers. "Do you remember that case where I freaked you and Reid out with my story about being scared of the woods?" she asked with a small laugh.

And that launched us into an epic game of _Remember When,_ which was a good distraction. But I watched the clock, and my heart filled with dread. I tried to console myself with the lame, fairytale idea that I would know if something happened to Emily.

"I'm not supposed to call or text out, Derek. The scrambled messages only go one way. But if we don't hear something by 12:30, I will call," JJ says as the clock strikes 12:15.

I nod. Fifteen more minutes.

JJ stands and stretches. "I'm going to go get some more water. Do you want anything?"

I shake my head. I stare at the surveillance screens, not really registering what I'm seeing, but I do notice when a raccoon scampers across the back lawn.

Ten seconds later, several things happen nearly all at once: I watch the same racoon scamper across the back lawn in the same way, like the video feed is looped; I grab the cell phone and see in the upper left corner of the screen the words: NO SERVICE; I hear a crash like glass breaking coming from down stairs.

 _Oh, fuck._

I stand and run to the chest of weapons. I grab a handgun and carefully make my way out the door, but there is no point a second later. I hear a voice that I'm not sure I'll ever forget. Peter Daniels calling out, "Agent Morgan, come out, come out wherever you are. I think we have something of yours."

There are no options when I see Daniels and Eric Clarke on the stairs, Clarke with a gun pointed at me, and Daniels with an arm around JJ's neck, a gun at her head and a panicked looked on her face.

 _She was supposed to be safe here! That was the point!_ My head screams.

"Drop the gun," Daniels hisses.

I hesitate for a second.

"Drop the gun," he says again, "Or I won't shoot her in the head. Maybe I'll shoot her here." I watch him move the gun to JJ's stomach.

I bend automatically and place the gun on the floor, then stand again with my arms raised.

 _First rule in these situations: Don't panic. Control what you can and use what you have._

I take a step back as they all walk up the stairs, angling my back towards the open doorway of my little torture chamber. I'm leading a fine dance here. If they were going to shoot us both, they would have done so immediately. And all I'm thinking about is one wrist brace attached to the wall with a molly bolt, and a chance.

They walk towards me and I see Daniels taking in the room behind me. "In there," he says.

I step backwards and walk towards the wall with the wrists braces. I watch the crazy eyes of Daniels dance around the room. "Strap him in," he says to Eric.

Eric grins and steps towards me. I put up no resistance as he attaches my wrists to the wall, followed by my ankles.

Once I'm contained, Daniels places the gun to JJ's forehead and commands her to get on the bench. She glances at me and I stare right back at her. _Don't fight_ , I will her. She climbs onto the bench and Eric straps in her legs and and arms.

"Imagine my surprise tonight. I came here to clean up, take care of you and a woman named Anna, and attempt to go back to my life," Daniels says while circling JJ. "Then I found Agent Jareau in the kitchen, and I realized there was no chance of me getting out of this. And now...well, now, quite frankly, I'm just pissed off." He raises his gun and I close my eyes thinking this is it for JJ, but he doesn't shoot. He brings the gun down on the back of her head, and I watch her slump.

"You know what I'm thinking, Eric?" Daniels asks. "It's a rather chilly night. Perhaps it would be a good night for a fire."

Eric laughs.

 _They're both completely out of their minds,_ I think. And I know Emily and the team is coming. I'm holding onto that hope.

Daniels walks towards me. "Your Irina was very protective of you, from what I hear. Who is she?"

I keep my mouth closed and grunt when Peter's fist connects with my gut. I stare him down. He raises the gun in his hand and moves to bring it down on my head. I brace myself for a blow that doesn't come.

"I'll take pity on Jennifer in her condition," he whispers, his lips right in front of mine. "But you? I want you awake while you burn to death."

He turns and looks at Eric. "Let's light it up, my brother!"

I watch them leave the room and count to ten, until I know they're downstairs. And then I twist my right wrist back and forth and feel the screw slipping. I use my strength to pull my arm forward and the screw slips free from the wall. I quickly reach over and start undoing the strap on my left wrist, then I bend to do my legs.

I run to JJ and feel her pulse thrumming steady and strong under my fingers and I contemplate my next move. Carrying her downstairs would make us sitting ducks. I couldn't shoot a gun and carry her, too. I could wait, wait for the first flames, which would signal that Daniels and Clarke were gone, and then make a break for it, but there's a huge risk in that. I have no idea what they're setting up out there and I could trap us both.

I unstrap JJ and lift her body from the bench, laying her gently on the ground. If she wakes up on her own, I want her to be able to run.

I leave the room and my gun is still sitting right there in the hallway. I pick it up and make my way silently downstairs. I get a whiff of natural gas, and follow the source to the kitchen. I also smell lighter fluid, my foot nearly slips in a thin line of it.

 _Oh shit, oh shit._ I think. I'm about to make a break back towards the stairs, but then I hear voices coming from what sounds like the pool room. And I realize for all their lunacy, these two are not arsonists. The kitchen here and the hallway to the pool room are on the other side of a thick support wall, and separate from the staircase and the rest of the house, like they were an addition. This portion of the house is going to blow, but I should still be able to get to JJ.

I follow the voices.

When I reach the pool room, the sliding door is open.

"Where the fuck are we going to go?" Eric asks.

"Relax. We have plenty of money. We'll start over."

The words barely escape his mouth before I put a bullet in Eric Clarke's back. He falls to the floor, the can of lighter fluid still in his hand, and Daniels spins, looking incredulous. He opens a zippo lighter and ignites a flame.

"You shoot me, and this drops," he says.

I smile. And then I laugh. I edge closer to the pool. "The problem there is that I think you're going to drop that either way. A few weeks ago, I dreamed about putting a bullet in your forehead."

I squeeze the trigger of the gun and am diving in the pool before I know the end result, but I know it a second later. I stay under and hold my breath as flames dance around the edge of the pool above me. I hold my breath and I wait and then, a minute later, I feel it, the kitchen exploding. The pool shakes, the water moves like I'm in the ocean, and then it stills.

I push up and break the surface of the water. I see them, two charred, burning lumps on the pool deck. I swim to the opposite edge and pull myself out of the water. I quickly grab a handful of towels and dunk them into the water. I wrap one soaked towel around my face and head and keep the others in my arms. I exit the pool room and jump through the flames, taking the opposite direction, away from the kitchen. I circle the laundry room, the theater room and come up on the living room.

I'm on the opposite side of the addition wall now and while it's smoky and I can see small flames and fires starting here and there, the stairs are still standing. I run up them and open the door. I drape wet towels over JJ's body, and then wrap one around her head and face. I lift her in my arms. "Let's get out of here, Jayje," I say.

I emerge from the room and hit the stairs, and stare in horror. The fire has taken a much faster life of its own than I anticipated, because of all the air blowing in from the kitchen where the explosion occurred. There are flames everywhere, and I've got about twenty yards to the front door.

 _We can make it,_ I say to myself. I start out on the remaining few carpeted stairs and hit the tile floor at the landing that feels like it's about a thousand degrees. My bare feet take a few steps and then I crumple in pain, feeling blisters already forming on my feet.

I scoot back towards the stairs, JJ still in my arms, and I contemplate heading back upstairs and trying to get us out a window when I see movement ahead of me. Red hair, black clothes. _Emily._

* * *

 _September 1, 2015  
12:30AM_

It's a convergence of helicopters in the sky as Clyde and I approach the estate. They're flanking us, but a bit behind. I can't see them, but I can hear them over the radio on the helicopter. Clyde made a judgment call while we were in the air. No matter who we called, the odds of them gathering and getting there before us were slim. But in the game of, "Who can you trust?" Clyde went with SIS.

Below us, on the ground, on the road leading to the estate, I can see a van and an ambulance.

I'm praying. I am literally strapped into my seat and praying when I see our estate light up like a Christmas Tree, a huge burst of light and explosion, and then just flames.

"Clyde!" I cry as he starts his descent over the gate of the property.

I'm unstrapped and jumping out of the helicopter before he completely sets it down. And then I am running like I never have before.

The front door is barely hanging onto its hinges. I don't know where to look first, but I'm aware of the extreme heat when I walk into the doorway. I head towards the stairs, Clyde just a few steps behind me.

We find them at the bottom of the stairs, Derek taking shaky, smoke-filled breaths and JJ cradled in his arms, looking like a ghost in wrapped towels.

They say people can find super-human strength in these situations, and maybe they can, because I reach forward and grab JJ in my arms, lifting her easily, like she weighs nothing. "Help him!" I shout at Clyde. And I watch for a couple of seconds until I see Clyde get his shoulder under Derek's arm and lift him to a standing position.

We're moving so fast, but everything feels like it's in slow motion. I'm about to the doorway with JJ in my arms when I hear a loud crack. I turn back around and see Clyde throw Derek to the ground and then throw his own body over Derek's, as a large, burning, wooden beam falls from the ceiling and crashes onto Clyde's head and back.

There's no time to cry or scream. I turn and get JJ out of the house. I set her on the grass and grab a wet towel off her body. I wrap it around my face and head back in. I kick the burning beam from Clyde's back and roll him off Derek. "Take him," Clyde weakly murmurs. "Don't you dare come back in here for me."

It's in that moment that I realize I'm crying. Clyde sacrificed himself and protected Derek and I don't know why except it's just him and he's giving himself up for what he thinks I need and want.

I reach down and grab Derek's arms, and he comes around, realizing I'm trying to drag him. He gets his feet under him and stands and I put his arm over my shoulder, half dragging and half carrying him out of the burning house.

I look up and see an SIS agent outside the doorway and he takes Derek from me.

I turn back around to head back in and the agent grabs my vest. "It's about to go," he shouts.

I shrug him off. I run back in. I'm barely aware of the extreme heat. I get to Clyde and I grab his hand, which feels like it's melting right under my hand; the skin literally slips off. I scream, something primal in me rising to the surface, and I bend down and grab his vest. I lift him and hoist him over my shoulder and I'm running, running.

The house groans and I'm barely through the doorway before that portion collapses.

But I'm out. I make it to the grass and lay Clyde's body on it, collapsing to my knees as I do so. There are flashing lights and I hear the sounds of a vehicle crashing through the gates. There's another helicopter in the sky with flashing blue and red lights. A Medflight helicopter, I think. We need it.

My eyes scan the area and I cough, trying to clear the smoke from my lungs. There's someone working on JJ and Derek is sitting up and coughing a few feet away, his eyes watering - from smoke or tears I don't know - but they're dripping and right on me.

And then there's Clyde. He's barely recognizable in the combination of moonlight and the flashing lights in the sky, his face red and blistered. "You are a pain in my ass," he wheezes before passing out.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N - This one is short, but needed to stand alone in my mind._

* * *

 _September 1, 2015  
5:30 AM  
Broomfield Hospital, St. Andrews Burne Centre  
Chelmford, Essex_

Yesterday, twenty-four people successfully brought down a massive, insane, intricate sex trafficking ring. The group was comprised of ten Belgium SWAT members, one brilliant technical analyst, five additional FBI agents, Hotch, Reid, Rossi, Clyde, Marcus Klaus, Derek Morgan, JJ and me.

We arrested ninety-two adults, eight of them part of "the family," Helena and Adrian Stancu among those survivors. Seven "family" members did not survive - the four Hotch, Reid and SWAT chased through the tunnels, Eric Clarke, and Robert and Peter Daniels.

Belgium Federal Police along with Interpol agents from around Europe are questioning the survivors now, but it's going to take days, possibly weeks, before we know where other kidnapped children and adults might be.

We rescued twenty-six minors, fourteen of them those being auctioned off this year, six who were part of last-night's "entertainment," and six who were in attendance. Belgium Social Services has them right now, and they're working with Antwerp Police to identify and locate any family. It's a huge undertaking. For the time-being, the Belgium Federal Police has them spread out in a few safe houses, and a combination of social workers, therapists and police are with them.

Except for Ari. After he was checked out of the hospital, Rossi took custody of him and got on a helicopter with the rest of the team to head here. It was probably the only thing that could have touched my numb, frightened heart when it happened - Ari becoming more lucid in the hospital waiting room here, and then Ari talking to his mother on the phone.

The BAU Section Chief and the Director of the FBI are currently on the BAU jet and traveling to London. They're bringing two people with them - Fran Morgan and Will. This story is going to be massive news. Already the hospital parking lot here is covered in a sea of reporters, and I can only imagine what it's like in Antwerp. All the FBI agents who were here tonight will receive well-deserved commendations.

When I was being checked over myself, having some minor burns treated and getting some fresh oxygen, the President of the Executive Committee for Interpol arrived at the hospital. He came in and shook my hand, congratulating me. He also gave me my first surprise of the night when he said, "When Easter first asked us for three million dollars, we didn't think you'd be able to pull this off. We gave him two million and sat back and waited. We're all amazed and forever grateful."

 _Two million dollars?_ We'd spent well over three million, and I knew instantly where the extra money came from.

JJ's okay. She's got a nasty bump on her head and a mild concussion, but her and the baby are just fine. Derek had so carefully wrapped her body in wet towels, and her exposure had been so minimal, that it was like she wasn't in a fire at all. Not a single burn, nor any significant signs of smoke inhalation.

Derek has second degree burns on the bottom of his feet and some second degree burns on his face, arms and hands. He's suffering from moderate smoke inhalation. He'll be here on oxygen for a couple of days to make sure he doesn't develop any infections, and he'll probably need a wheelchair for awhile, and then be hobbling around, but he's going to pull through just fine as well.

If any of us will truly be fine after everything we've seen.

I'm sitting in the waiting room of the burn centre now, with Hotch, who is holding my hand, waiting for news about Clyde. Rossi and Seaver have taken Ari to a hotel. Reid and Garcia are in the regular hospital, with JJ and Derek.

A doctor comes in the room.

"Ms. Prentiss?" he asks.

I stand and approach him. He introduces himself as Dr. Hutchinson, and I can tell by his face that he's not bringing me good news. He puts a hand on my shoulder, on the ridiculous, low-cut top I'm still wearing from the night before that is now singed with holes from the fire.

"Emily," I say hoarsely.

"Emily," he corrects himself. "Mr. Easter is not well. He has third degree burns on his hands. The vest protected much of his back, but he has third degree burns on his shoulders and the back of his head and much of his face. His smoke inhalation was significant. I'd typically give someone in his condition a sixty percent chance of survival, and a months long recovery process before we could even begin any skin grafts."

I watch Dr. Hutchinson clear his throat. He looks at the clipboard in his hands. "We just received his medical records from his doctor in London. You're his Lasting Power of Attorney. Are you aware of his current medical condition?"

My eyes open wide and fill with tears. I shake my head. I think a part of me already knows, even if I don't know the details; it was something I'd thought about while I was being treated, and thought about again after I realized that Clyde had thrown over a million dollars of his own money in the pot so I could get Derek Morgan back.

"Last March, Mr. Easter was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. He was given six months to a year to live."

I sob and nod my head and I feel Hotch approach me, placing his hand on my back.

Last March, right around the time when Clyde had inexplicably gotten more affectionate. Clyde, who'd been eating ibuprofen like candy, claiming he had a tension headache. Clyde who had willingly put himself in the lions den and acted like me or other people beating him was nothing at all. Clyde, who had nearly collapsed tonight while clutching his head, before we got on the helicopter. Clyde, who had thrown Derek down on the ground and covered him with his own body to save him.

Clyde who had been saying things and giving me advice this whole time like he wouldn't be around forever.

 _I won't let you get lost again, Emily._

 _Promise me you'll never go undercover again._

 _My sweet Penelope, on the contrary, I think whatever it is that they're up to is going to be the thing that helps them the most when this case is over_

 _Remember you have a life to live when this is all over._

 _Don't you dare come back in for me._

I look back up at Dr. Hutchinson who's speaking again. "He hasn't seen his doctor for a month. We did a scan, and his tumor has grown significantly. I'm very sorry, Emily, but I believe that the tumor will kill him before he can recover from his burns. His medical directives include things like no life-saving measures, including life-saving oxygen, but I only just found that out. He woke up and indicated very clearly that he wanted his breathing tube out. He knows his status. He asked me and I told him. He's surprisingly lucid, given his condition. He demanded we cut off his morphine drip, I think so he can stay awake, but agreed temporarily to an oxygen mask. He wants to see you."

I nod again and Dr. Hutchinson puts his hand on my back, guiding me back into the burn unit. He hands me a sterile gown and gloves, which is ridiculous since any infection I might introduce to Clyde's body won't have time to take hold.

His eyes are open when we get to his room. He's laying on his side and there's bandaging covering the exposed side of his face and his shoulders. I keep my eyes on his and try to control my tears. I sit next to the bed, on a stool that's there. His voice is incredibly hoarse and muffled by an oxygen mask when he speaks.

"So now you know," he says.

I nod and place my hand gently on his chest. "Clyde," I sigh.

"I hurt, Emily, and there's no reason to live with this pain. I'm going to ask them to turn off my oxygen completely."

I nod again. "I know. I love you, Clyde Easter. You are a phenomenal man, and I'll be thankful everyday for having known you. Thank you. For everything."

He moves his head slightly in what might be a nod. "Now will you promise me?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation. "No more undercover work ever again. I promise."

Tears leak out of his eyes. "I love you, too, Em."

I wipe my tears and smile at him. I want to give him something good to look at besides me crying. His lips turn up in what might be a small smile, but it's hard to tell behind the mask.

I think of him going off oxygen, and the potentially drawn-out death in front of him, and how agonizing it might be. He didn't want this. He wanted to die back in that house and I pulled him out. This isn't a situation where there will be an autopsy, and he's lucid enough to make the choice.

I reach under my hospital gown and into the bodice of my shirt, into the built-in bra, seeing if it's still there. I find the capsule I slipped in there after Helena gave it to me. I look around and see no eyes on us. I pull out the pill with my gloved fingers and show it to him. Clyde Easter knows exactly what a suicide pill looks like.

He nods. "Thank you."

My tears are back but I try to smile at him again. I press the call button on the bed and Dr. Hutchinson appears almost immediately. "Turn his morphine drip back on and turn off his oxygen," I say quietly.

Dr. Hutchinson looks at Clyde, who says, "What she said."

I manage a small laugh.

Dr. Hutchinson quietly goes about fulfilling our requests. He pulls off the oxygen mask and pats Clyde's chest and says, "You are a hero." And then he walks out of the room.

I keep my hand on Clyde's chest and watch his eyes slowly start to droop, but he's fighting to keep looking at me. His breathing is labored and watery, but I know he could go on for hours or even days like this. "Don't let my story be yours," he mumbles hoarsely, but I can understand him.

"I won't," I tell him. "I love you," I say again. His eyes slip shut after five minutes and I stand, bending over him and blocking his face with my body, like I'm going to give him a kiss. I slip the pill in his mouth, fitting it between his teeth, so he doesn't have to wait for the hard shell of the pill to dissolve. I move his jaw so the pill crunches open and the sodium cyanide hits his system quickly.

It's not long and there's little fanfare. His body convulses slightly about thirty seconds later, and then the heart monitor flatlines. And then I do gently kiss his lips. "Goodbye, my friend," I whisper.

Dr. Hutchinson comes in the room. He touches my arm and I slip away from him, out of the room and down the hall, ripping off the gown and gloves as I go. I get to the waiting room and Hotch is there and I'm sobbing harder than I ever have in my life, and I'm running again, even though it burns my sensitive lungs.

Hotch runs beside me, out of the burn unit and into the foggy light of dawn. We make it the distance to the regular hospital. "What room?" I ask Hotch as I slow and walk into the building.

"Four twenty-two."

I go to the elevators and get in. Hotch follows. I get off on the fourth floor and follow the signs to Derek's room. Garcia is there, sitting in a chair next to his bed, but she immediately stands when she sees me.

I can only imagine what I look like, sobbing and snot running down my face, with soot on my body here and there.

I collapse in the chair and pull it forward. I put my hand on Derek's chest and feel his beating heart. I watch the blip of it on the monitor. He's also got an oxygen mask on, but his breathing is not labored. He's sleeping peacefully, on pain medicine himself, but he's not dying.

Yesterday, twenty-four brave people went in and brought down a giant, impossibly psychotic sex trafficking ring. It was an improbably successful mission given the numbers and circumstances.

The good guys only suffered one casualty, and he was one of the best.

I keep my hand on Derek's chest and rest my forehead on his mattress. "Clyde's gone," I whisper, even though Derek can't hear me. Even though I can't quite believe the words myself.


	17. Chapter 17

_September 1, 2015  
Chelmford, Essex_

I'm asleep with my head on the edge of Derek's hospital bed, my hand in his, when Fran Morgan arrives in the room. Derek is still out cold. I open my eyes and I know immediately that they are incredibly puffy from crying. I also smell like I've bedded down in the middle of a campfire.

Penelope is asleep in a chair in the corner of the room, but wakes up as well when Fran comes in. It's only ten-thirty in the morning; we haven't been sleeping for long.

Fran hugs Penelope, and then she turns to me, stepping forward and bending down to wrap her arms around me. "I don't know all the details, but Agent Hotchner told me it was you who got him back," she says in my ear. "Thank you."

I return her hug, at a loss for words. "He's going to be fine," I say somewhat lamely.

She releases me and puts her hand on her son's, and I stand so she can have my chair.

"The doctor says he'll be in here a couple of days?" she asks while glancing at Penelope, like she wants to verify the truth of that statement.

"Yes. They're mostly concerned with the effects of smoke inhalation and they want to keep an eye on him. His burns will heal," Penelope responds.

Fran nods and sits down. "Savannah's been calling me ever since he was taken, wanting to know if I knew anything. The past couple of weeks have been difficult, knowing he was safe and not telling her. She's wondering if she should fly here, but if it's only a couple of days, she'd be better off at home."

I raise my eyebrows and Penelope glances at me, a cross between desperation and confusion. Fran continues, "She wants to talk to him about moving back in. Him being taken made her reevaluate her feelings. I didn't even know she had moved out until this happened."

I immediately feel like crying, but I have no tears left. Instead, I swallow past a lump in my throat and stupidly say, "Oh."

Fran turns back to Derek and runs her hand gently over his cheek. I just stare at his face, thinking that before he was taken, Savannah had only been gone five days, after they'd been together for over two years, and living together for about ten months during that time.

He and I were thrown into an impossible situation, an ephemeral world of both horror and beauty, and, given the information about Savannah, I honestly don't know where we stand now, with the arrests made and the children saved, and the bed Derek and I had shared for over two weeks burned to ashes.

I'd almost forgot Savannah even existed. I don't know about Derek; he never mentioned her. Not once this whole time.

I step around to the other side of the bed and put my hand on Derek's shoulder. "I'm going to go shower and change and take care of some things," I say to Fran. "When he wakes up, will you please tell him I'll be back later this evening?"

Fran nods but keeps her eyes on Derek's face. "Thank you," she says again, tears in her eyes.

She has no idea of the magnitude of any of this, of what exactly Derek or I went through to get to this point. She's just happy her son is back and alive and right in front of her. I look at her kind face and back at Derek and make a decision.

My heart is hammering, and if someone were to ask me how I felt right in that moment, there is no way I could grasp onto any one emotion. They all fly around inside me and meld together into a murky uneasiness. The only thing I know how to do when I feel like this is to throw myself into work and try to block it out.

I want as little personal, uncomfortable press about Derek Morgan as possible. I want all of those kids to get their due sooner rather than later. And I have the power to control that.

I pat Fran's hand where it lays atop Derek's. "You are most welcome," I say to her.

I exit the room and motion to Penelope to follow me. She opens her mouth to say something as soon as we get in the hallway and I shake my head. "Not now, OK? Where's Hotch?"

Whatever Penelope was going to say dies on her lips. "I don't know. I was asleep, too."

"Do you have a hotel key?"

She nods and reaches into her pocket. I take the Holiday Inn card and she says, "Room two-sixteen. The hotel is just down the street."

"Do you have any of your alias debit cards?" I ask. I have nothing. No keys to my flat, no identification of any kind.

Penelope nods. "Yes."

"Please go shopping for me. I need a suit, some shoes, a brown wig that looks like my old hair and some makeup. And then meet me back at the hotel with Hotch when you're done."

"Of course," she says automatically.

I stare at her and debate, quickly thinking over how I want to play this, feeling a lot like Clyde in that moment, like he is right here in my head, guiding me. I pull her arm and take her to a quiet corner. "Are you up for being Anna Greenfield one more time?"

Her eyes open wide. "What do you mean?"

"Not really Anna, but as an undercover agent who played the part of Anna. Tomorrow, I want you to do the initial interview with Helena. I'll coach you. There are certain outcomes we need here, and what you say to her will play a part. I want us both to go in and talk to her, but I want you to be first. And I need you to be the bad cop."

"Me?" Garcia asks incredulously.

"You. Last night all I wanted was for all of them to rot in a jail cell and suffer, but now I'm thinking of full confessions - legal full confessions - and damage control."

"Damage control for whom?" Penelope asks.

"The kids. Derek. Me. I know you can do this. You know you can do this. You even scared me a little the other night."

Garcia grins at that. "OK. I'll do it."

I hug her and then step back. "Then get yourself a suit, too. And get a good one. We're working with Clyde's money right now and he'd want you to spoil yourself."

Garcia looks down and then back up, tears in her eyes. "I know. I've known for a while now. He had me help him make the transfers when we were running low on funds, and swore me to secrecy."

I reach forward and squeeze her hand. I can't talk too much about Clyde just yet. "I'll see you soon?"

She opens her mouth and hesitates before closing it again. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."

I turn and find a private place to make a phone call with a phone Hotch left for me earlier this morning. Several hours before, when the President of Interpol's Executive Committee, James Pierre, came to see me, he asked me if I would head the organization of the aftermath of this case with Marcus Klaus. At the time I told him I would let him know sometime today, but I realized a few minutes ago that I was going to have to be involved no matter what, and my feet were going to to be on European soil for at least a little while. I might as well take charge and play this out the way I want. And maybe Derek and I needed some time apart to sort through our feelings and heal from this in our own ways.

 _And maybe you're just happy to have the excuse to be busy so you don't have to feel too much right now,_ my inner voice says. I mentally kick that voice in the gut.

I call James, tell him I'll do it.

"I'm very sorry about Clyde," he says. "I just can't believe it."

"Me, either," I say softly. "Are any of the key people we have in custody talking yet?" I ask James.

"Not a word," he replies. "But many of the other people are. Most are demanding we contact their attorneys, which we have. These people have money, Emily. A lot of money. A few attorneys have arrived, indignant, but we have pictures from the surveillance at the auction house. When you throw a picture down in front of them of naked children being beaten and raped on a stage, and children naked and chained getting ready to be auctioned off, they shut up very quickly. They start asking for deals. There will be no deals, but this is going to be an extradition nightmare. The good news is that of the children you rescued last night, we've found families for twelve of them so far. Most of them are like you and Clyde anticipated - from very poor areas in various countries, and their disappearances didn't make a huge media splash. But you don't need money to love a child."

"What about money for therapy and other needs?" I ask.

"That will be no problem. I have people working on that now with the computer equipment we recovered, finding the accounts these people used, and the amounts they paid to buy children and adults. There are tens of millions involved here, plus all the properties. It's going to take a while, and they'll need to be prosecuted first, but Interpol can help fund things for now. These children and their families will be well cared for. For the children who don't have families we can locate, we'll work with social services in their countries of origin. Once this all gets out, there will be people offering to take in these kids, Emily. Most of the world is made up of good people."

"I know," I sigh, trying to remind myself of that fact. "Have we started going into their homes yet?" I ask.

"Yes," James said sadly. "Various law enforcement has been very cooperative in that regard, and Interpol is running the warrants. French police went into two homes. They recovered four more minors and made three more arrests. It was similar in a home outside of Vienna. And there's more coming. We have all the addresses now of the buyers, the warrants we need and law enforcement en route to look inside."

 _Vienna._ Where Derek was held.

"Emily," James continues. "Interpol Italy went into Adrian Stancu's home outside of Tuscany. They found…" James cleared his throat. "They found another underground maze, but it wasn't just tunnels. It was a catacomb. So far they've recovered thirty-two bodies, mostly children."

I close my eyes and put my hand over my heart. "I don't want anyone questioning Helena or Adrian or anyone else in the inner ring again," I say sternly. "I'll be there tomorrow morning and do that."

I throw out the idea of what I think we need to do first, the thing Clyde always expertly navigated. James agrees, provided no story runs before later this evening when all of the warrants and homes have been searched, and says he'll let Marcus Klaus know. We've held the press at bay with "No comment at this time," for nearly ten hours now. It's time for a public statement.

I approach Derek's doctor and ask him for what I need in order to get through the throng of reporters outside, without looking like the crazy, red-headed lady who had streaked past them early this morning on my run between the burn center and this hospital.

I walk out of the hospital fifteen minutes later with a clean face, wearing scrubs and a paper cap over my hair. I walk right into the crowd of video cameras casually, like I'm just a doctor and not involved in this case at all, and they buy it. Doctors or nurses taking care of anyone involved with this case would not casually exit the hospital and walk right through them.

My eyes scan the faces until I find him: Nicholas Hansen, a lead Associated Press London reporter, and a man whom Clyde had casually seen on very rare occasions, who I knew felt more for Clyde than Clyde was willing or able to give him.

I let my eyes linger on his and watch as recognition dawns on him seconds later. I give him a slight nod and keep walking towards the sidewalk, knowing he'll follow.

Two blocks later, a car pulls to the side of the street and I open the door and get in. I look at Nick and reach out to touch his hand. "Clyde didn't make it," I say softly.

I watch Nick's eyes fill with tears, but my well has run dry. "I'm sorry," I say while squeezing his hand. "I need your help. I won't bribe you with an exclusive story because I know that's not how you operate. I'm asking you for a favor, for Clyde."

Nick wipes his face and nods. "Anything."

"Sam O'Brien. He's at Hope House in London. I want you to go there. I want you to tell him I sent you. I want you to tell him that we've arrested a woman he remembers as Migs. I want you to tell him that I told you he should tell his story to you. And then I want you to bring that information back to the Holiday Inn that's about a block away from here. Room 216. I want you to run Sam's story tonight, but keep his name out of it. I'll fill in the necessary holes. And then I want you to write another story, but sit on it for a couple of days. It will be a Pulitzer-worthy expose, and your source will primarily be Clyde. We're going to play it like Clyde sent you a package in the mail before this all went down, because he was afraid for his life."

I really want to downplay what happened to Derek the past few weeks and make it seem like he was merely taken and sold, and an unnamed undercover agent with Interpol got in to buy him back. That he was untouched in all of this.

Helena's driver is dead - Hotch thought Peter Daniels probably shot him and the other guard at the house in Belgium before he took off in the helicopter. The two "brothers" who had been on that stage with me and Derek and Helena when we put on our show are dead. I have no idea who had been watching, but it's probably several people we currently have in custody, and what had happened to Derek Morgan on that stage would likely not come up because it would only implicate them further.

All of "the family" is keeping their mouths shut. The only person who could and would possibly bring Derek's name into this in a way that would embarrass him was Helena. For all her exterior strength and superiority, she was weak, and I could see her cracking under questioning.

I intend to take care of her tomorrow.

"Clyde Easter would never feed me Interpol information, even if a gun was pointed at his head." Nick says.

I knew Clyde would approve of my plan; in fact I could almost feel his spirit surrounding me and urging me on."He would if he thought he might die and his talking could protect innocent people and children. We're not going to put ourselves out there in front of the cameras just yet. We want the story on the wire by this evening, but we want to control the emphasis and who was involved on our end, and just how much. A well-written story will guide the questions the press asks, and that's what we need. It will save the victims from unnecessary scrutiny."

Nick stares at me. "I don't know, Emily. Are you asking me to report lies?"

"No. You'll have all the important truths. You know the press. You're one of the few who don't chomp at the bit trying to get the victim's names and profiles in sensational cases. We're going to give them all a story that's true and so complex and sensational that it will take decades to get to the victims. It's what Clyde would have wanted. Can you handle this?" I ask.

Nick wipes his eyes again and nods. "Yes. If it's what he would have wanted, I'll do and I'll never tell a soul. Clyde trusted you more than anyone, so I trust you."

* * *

I take a shower, using the entirety of the small hotel bottles of shampoo and conditioner and body wash. Now I only smell like campfire covered in a bed of fragrant roses. I wrap a towel around my body and lay back on the bed. Garcia knocks on the door about an hour later with shopping bags.

We head towards the bathroom. She helps put on my wig and temporarily colors my eyebrows. "He doesn't want Savannah back," she says softly.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"I don't. Not for certain, but it's what I believe with my whole heart. He loves you, Emily."

"Loving someone because they are in the middle of a life and death situation and loving someone when life is normal are two different things," I say, completely turned upside down and uncertain, and feeling entirely unlike myself for having a conversation about feelings like this with anyone at all.

Garcia laughs and goes back to my eyebrows. "It's funny that you think life is 'normal' for the two of you. Maybe that's what makes it good and real Emily, that you two love each other when everything is messed up and crazy. If you can love each other in the middle of what we just went through, when can't you love each other?"

I think about that as I walk to the room to put on my new undergarments and a suit, and she follows me. "Are you going to give up?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No. But he's going to have to go back to DC in a couple of days. He's got to file official FBI paperwork and give his statements, which Hotch can coach him through. He's going to need to recover physically. If he wants to go back to the BAU, and I believe he will, therapy is going to be required. I want to give him the space to sort through things, and I'm going to be stuck here for at least a few weeks anyway."

"Don't go all logical, closed-off Prentiss on me. I hate that. The only place it's ever gotten you is a wooden stake through your abdomen and a life of loneliness in London," Garcia says harshly.

I turn to look at her as I'm buttoning my blouse. I've never heard her speak like this before. I bow my head. "I'm not very good at this, Penelope."

"Maybe you need to be asking yourself why you can face down a sociopath and risk your life without hesitation, why you can walk into a burning house and save the people you care about without a second thought, but when you don't have a proverbial gun to your head, you can't save yourself emotionally, or love the person you love."

I look up in shock. She doesn't give me an inch, no softening of her face, no gentle hand on my arm. "He's not the only one who needs therapy," she says, standing right in front of me and looking every bit as frightening as she did when she was Anna. "I know everything you went through to get Derek back. I know Clyde died to save him. There aren't enough ways in the world to express my gratitude. I love you, too. We all do, Emily. We all want you to come home, but you and Derek? You're the ones who _need_ you to come home."

I contemplate her words while I finish dressing. "You spent a lot of time with Clyde, didn't you?" I say when I'm dressed.

"Yep," she says while flopping onto the bed. "The least I can do for Clyde Easter is to take his place in calling you on your shit."

I look in the mirror and blink my eyes rapidly. I look like Emily Prentiss, completely. I look like I did the day I walked out of Interpol on August sixth to meet Sam O'Brien in that alley. But I look and stare, and I'm not sure I see myself at all.

Before I can formulate a response, Hotch is at the door. I let him in and lay it out, what we're doing and what we're going for. I spare no details for Hotch. He sits there and I lay it on him, the details of the case, what it was like when I was inside, and what it was like for Derek when he came in with me. I've got to hand it to him; he only looks sick one time and he keeps his emotions in check. Then I tell him and Penelope what I want to do.

They both stare at me long and hard as they ponder different scenarios, but ultimately agree that what I'm going to attempt is best for Derek, best for the children involved, and best for me, in terms of anonymity and, for the children, monetary compensation.

Every single one of those sick bastards would have the opportunity to drag their cases on and on, locking up their money, and as much as I can mentally relish the idea of them getting their dues in prison, that's vengeful. Clyde Easter never did vengeful; he operated from the standpoint of best outcomes for the victims, always.

Nick Hansen knocks on the hotel room door looking a little worse for the wear. "Is Sam's story true?" he asks as soon as he's inside.

I nod my head, and he sinks to the chair at the small table in the hotel room. He pulls out his laptop. "What we're doing here is going to help kids like Sam, right?"

"Absolutely," I say.

Because I remember. I didn't remember it last night, but I remember it now. I remember sitting in an interrogation room and a woman accusing me of not understanding, because my monster - Doyle - was dead. And it's time to make the real monsters dead - for all of those children, the grown ones like Sam included.

We work with Nick for hours. The first story is easy. It's mostly about Sam, with Emily Prentiss, Director of London Interpol confirming some facts. But no real names are written. It's a narrative, from Sam's perspective, from what he remembers, which is actually more detailed than anything he ever was able to tell Clyde and I, since he'd been in drug rehab for nearly a month.

It's the second story that takes us a long time, the story we're intending to have Nick print as if Clyde mailed him the information. Garcia helps write a timeline and we go deep into "the family." There are pictures and more detailed stories of the auctions and how they work.

It's the story that will make the press scramble for details about the lives of each of "the family" members. They'll be chasing down people at Oxford and real family members for weeks, possibly months. When they're done with that, the children will be long gone and placed in homes. And Derek will be back in DC and his part in any of this will be so downplayed that no one will want to talk to him; he emotionally risked the most of himself for this all to happen, but I'm making him an afterthought in the press.

When we're done, I tell Nick to run the first story online. We wait thirty minutes. Then I stand. I touch up the makeup that covers the small burns on my face, neck and hands. In the back of my mind are Garcia's words regarding Derek and me, and who I am as a person when it comes to living and love.

I contemplate those words as I walk out of the hotel. I contemplate them as I clutch the vinyl seat in the back of a cab. They're swirling in my head as I walk towards the reporters at the hospital.

But then I stop and get myself together, focus on the small things I can control. It's now been nearly an hour since Sam's story went out on the wire, and the reporters are practically salivating for a statement.

With my dark brown wig that's just beyond shoulder length, with my eyebrows and eyes back to their regular color, I face the cameras and microphones.

"Hello, I'm Emily Prentiss, Director of London Interpol. I have a statement to make…"

I'm far enough away so that the cameras can't get a good profile shot of me. I face them head on and look them all in the eyes as I confirm the story that went up on the wire.

Clyde Easter's spirit is split in two as it surrounds me. He'd be proud of the way I'm orchestrating this and the plan in my mind; but part of him would want to slap me and ask me what the fuck I was doing when it came to Derek Morgan.

I wouldn't be able to answer him, because I don't know myself.


	18. Chapter 18

_September 1, 2015  
Broomfield Hospital  
Chelmsford, Essex_

When I wake up, I'm completely disoriented. The first thing I do is reach my arm out, searching for Emily's body, like she should be sleeping right next to me. Then a layer of pain registers in my mind, and I catch the faint smell of smoke on my skin, and it all comes back.

My eyes snap open in a panic, searching the room, but there's no Emily or Penelope or Clyde. There's Rossi, dozing in the corner of the room, and my mother, sitting in a chair next to my bed and holding my hand.

"Shhh. Derek. It's okay," she says.

I try to speak and feel the burning in my throat. I rip the mask off my face. Emily was sitting up and alive the last time I saw her. "JJ?" I croak out.

Rossi wakes up, and my mother stands. She puts the oxygen mask back over my face as Rossi says, "JJ's okay. The baby's okay. You wrapped her up so well that she doesn't have a burn on her. She's going to get out of here sometime today probably."

I nod, relieved. "Emily?" I ask.

"She's working with Marcus Klaus to lead the interrogations and had some work to do," Rossi says. "I don't know the details yet, but she's meeting with Hotch and Penelope right now."

"How long have I been out?" I ask.

"Since they brought you in around one o'clock in the morning. It's about three o'clock in the afternoon now. You're in a hospital in Essex. You have second degree burns on the bottom of your feet and near your wrists, and little patches here and there of first degree burns. You're recovering from the effects of smoke inhalation, but you're going to recover fully."

I look at my feet that aren't covered with a blanket, but are wrapped up in gauze. My wrists are similarly wrapped. I feel slight discomfort on my upper thighs, but the blanket is covering me and I don't think it's as severe as my feet and wrists. I reach my hand up to touch my face and don't feel any bandages. I also don't feel any huge burned areas there. It's a little sensitive to the touch, but nothing like it could have been. The memory resurfaces.

Clyde threw me to the ground, and the wet towel that was covering my face fell partially off me. Then I felt his body on top of mine and there was a loud crack. Before I felt the pressure of something landing on top of Clyde, applying more weight on my body and surrounding us both in immense heat, Clyde slid his hand under my cheek and ear; between the towel and his hand, he kept my face off the hot floor. He pressed his cheek against my exposed ear. He was trying to cover every exposed piece of my skin that he possibly could. I registered the smell of burning flesh, and I remember thinking it was me before I realized it was him.

"Can you make it out on your own?" he asked.

My feet felt like they couldn't hold me on my own and I could barely see out of my eyes. I don't remember if I responded. But his other arm wrapped around me, snaking under my body and landing on my chest, trying to provide a layer between my sweatshirted torso and the hot floor. And his legs moved between mine, moving under my shins and elevating my feet in the air.

Looking back, I'd say he'd done it all before, but I realize now, it wasn't in a fire situation. When I thought Emily was dead and I was pissed off at the world and just grasping at straws, I had Penelope do a lot of research on Clyde Easter, not all of it legal. I remember a video demonstration of a much younger Clyde Easter when he was with SIS, showing how to safely hold a person should you be in a situation with only one parachute. Except for the hand protecting my cheek, that's how he held me on that hot floor.

He said in my ear, part moan and part whisper, "Stay calm and breathe through the towel. Keep your eyes closed. Keep your fists clenched and off the tile. She'll be coming back for you any second."

He moaned then, and it was low but laced with so much pain he might as well have been screaming at the top of his lungs. "Here she comes," he gasped. "She'll come back for you when this over. Promise me you won't ever give up on her..."

I blink back tears and look at Rossi. "Clyde?"

Rossi shakes his head sadly. "Clyde had an inoperable brain tumor. He knew his time was limited. That's why he did what he did to save you. That's what Emily told Hotch and Hotch told me."

I lean my head back on the pillow and close my eyes. "Maybe," I say. I think Clyde would have done what he did either way. I should be in a burn unit with third degree burns, but I'm not. I should have a tube down my throat helping me breathe, but I don't. I have second degree burns on my feet and forearms and a first degree burns here and there.

And Clyde Easter is dead.

I'm overcome with emotion from all of this, being taken in the first place and everything Emily and I have been through, and now this. Me alive and Clyde dead. I start sobbing and can't stop, and then I start coughing.

A doctor comes in the room and stands over me. "Mr. Morgan," she says kindly while patting my shoulder. "It's good to see you awake. I know you've been through a lot, but I need you to calm down. You need to be resting your lungs and vocal cords."

I nod and take a deep breath, which burns, so I switch to shallower, slower breaths. I don't want to be given drugs that knock me out again. The doctor talks about my pain level, which I put at a seven on a scale of one to ten. "That's good, but it's probably due to the demerol," she tells me.

"No more," I say. I don't want to be drugged into a stupor ever again if I can help it.

The doctor smiles. "We can switch you to tylenol with codeine and see how you do. Hungry?"

I nod. It feels like it's been forever since I've eaten.

"Good. Let's start you off with some soft, bland food and see how you do. I'll round some things up for you to eat and let you catch up with your family, and then be back in with a doctor from our burn center in a bit for a more thorough exam."

I nod again. I'll grit through the pain and stay calm if it keeps me off heavy drugs.

When she leaves, I look at Rossi. "When will Emily be back?" I whisper hoarsely. She's got to be falling apart about Clyde, but if she's out there working, that means she's turning those emotions off. I need to get her back in here before she goes entirely into that fucktastically emotionless place she can so easily go.

"She said later this evening," my mother responds.

Rossi comes nearer to the bed and pats my shoulder. "It's really good to see you and hear your voice again, Morgan. I'll go let the others know you're awake. Seaver's at a hotel taking care of Ari right now. He was never touched. He's scared right now, but he was never beaten or molested. His parents are currently on a flight and I'm going to head to Heathrow to pick them up shortly."

I nod, biting back my overwhelming emotions. At least that - that one thing that had driven me from the moment I walked into the Brooklyn precinct and started questioning Daniels - worked out.

Rossi exits the room and my mother smiles at me. She kisses my forehead. "Derek," she says, crying. "I was so worried."

"I'm okay," I say automatically. "I'm sorry you were worried. I'm so sorry, Mom."

She pats my cheek and kisses my forehead again before sitting down.

"You talked to Emily?" I ask. I'm not exactly hurt that Emily didn't hang around until I woke up, but I am a bit surprised.

"Briefly. She and Penelope were here when I got to the hospital earlier." I watch her pull out her phone. "I'll call Savannah to let her know you're awake. She's been so worried. She says she wants to come home. We'll talk about the fact that you hadn't told me she moved out later," my mother says with a smile.

I reach my arm out, anger flashing in me. It's not anger towards my mother at all, who is innocently thinking she's cooperating in what's best for me and just wants her son safe and loved. It's anger towards Savannah. I hadn't really even thought about her these past several weeks. I gently take the phone from my mom's hand and she looks at me, confused. Reality dawns on me.

"Did you mention Savannah to Emily?" I ask.

My mom nods, her eyes wide. "Yes. Why?"

"Damn," I moan. Then I look her straight in the eye. "Savannah is _not_ coming back to the house. I don't want her to. She moved out when I was gone on a case and refused to talk to me. She doesn't just get to just change her mind and expect things are going to go back like they were. And everything's changed for me now anyway."

I wince. Too many words; my throat is too raw. "OK, Derek. OK," my mom says softly, but concerned and confused. "Rest. We can talk more later."

I close my eyes. Just Savannah's name probably made Emily hightail it out of here. By now she's probably doing a very good job of convincing herself that I'd be better off back home with Savannah. _Fuck._

The doctor comes back with jello, applesauce and room-temperature water; a meal fit for a king. But I eat and drink and then put my face mask back on. I doze off and on. Reid comes in to check on me. The doctor comes back with another doctor from the burn center and has me do some breathing exercises; they swap my face mask for a nasal cannula instead. I'm served a better dinner, still soft food, but more filling.

JJ shows up in a wheelchair, Will pushing her. She stands when she gets to the edge of my bed and rests her head on my chest. "Thank you," she sighs against me.

I put my hand on her head. "Emily was the one who carried you out of there."

JJ looks up, tears sparkling in her eyes, and smiles. "Don't worry, I'll be crying when I get the chance to thank her, too."

I smile at her and my eye catches the television that's beyond her and hanging high on the wall, which has been on mute for awhile now. I quickly reach for the remote and turn up the volume.

There she is on my television screen, in a suit with a wig on her head and looking every bit like the stoic, hard-ass Agent Prentiss I know, and nothing like Irina Popov, and nothing like the soft, pliant woman I've held in my arms while we slept for the past couple of weeks. Then she starts speaking, and I realize this is a different Emily Prentiss than I've ever seen before; the Emily in charge and orchestrating the media.

"Hello. I'm Emily Prentiss, Director of Interpol London. I have a statement to make. About an hour ago, a story went out on the wire about a young man and the horrors he lived through as a child, being kidnapped and sold multiple times to pedophiles. To the best of my knowledge, that story is true, and it relates to the arrests made in Belgium and the Netherlands last night, along with the fire in Theydon Garnon…"

"Last night we made approximately one hundred arrests of people we believe are directly involved with a human trafficking ring. I'll be leading the investigation into the allegations in this case along with Marcus Klaus, Director of Belgium's Federal Police. As soon as we have solid information, I'll schedule a press conference. I will promise to give you an update to the best of my abilities within forty-eight hours. Until then, I ask that you respect the privacy of the people in the hospital here, along with the privacy of innocent victims involved in this case."

"An affiliate in France said a home was raided in Provence in the middle of the night. There are reports of children being removed from the home and adults being taken into custody. Can you confirm if that is related to this case?" a reporter asks.

"I have no comment at this time," Emily responds.

"What about a house in Wales that was similarly raided?" asks another reporter.

"No comment at this time," she says again.

"Usually it's Clyde Easter who makes these media statements for Interpol UK. Where is he?" a reporter asks.

Emily looks down and then back up at the cameras. The camera zooms in on her face, and I can see it. JJ voices it. "She wanted someone to ask that question."

Emily looks appropriately sad on the screen. "Clyde Easter ran this investigation with the authority from Interpol's Executive Committee. I'm very sorry to say that Clyde Easter died earlier this morning as a result of injuries he sustained during the fire in Theydon Garnon last night. He died like he lived - a hero, helping to save the lives of people who were in that house. That's all for now."

I watch her turn and walk away, and then the screen flashes to a reporter. I put the TV back on mute. "Smart," Will says. "They'll be looking into Clyde Easter's life and exploring the other raids until she can get her feet under her with the interrogations."

"And she's just obliterated anyone who wants to claim their arrests weren't legal because it was Belgian Federal Police while the house was in the Netherlands. With the investigation being run from Interpol's Executive Committee, anyone appointed by Interpol could make those arrests," says JJ.

I barely hear them. I'm thinking of Emily's retreating back caught on camera, heading into a hospital and counting the seconds. I'm aware of my mother's concerned eyes and her squeezing my hand more firmly, grasping for the first time just a fraction of the realities of this case.

But I'm counting. It's two-hundred sixty-four seconds until I hear the familiar staccato of her stride in the hallway outside my room.

And then she's here, one hand in the pocket of her suit pants and her eyes on me. She gives me a watery smile when she sees that I'm awake and sitting up in bed, but doesn't say anything.

JJ reaches for her and wraps her arms around her, and Emily returns the hug, rubbing JJ's back. Will hugs her as well. They whisper words of thanks and gratitude and Emily looks almost embarrassed.

Then JJ sits back down in her wheelchair and puts her hand on Will's arm. My mom is watching my face, while I look at Emily, but I also catch a glimpse of JJ's eyes. She's glancing at Will and then back at my mom.

"Mrs. Morgan," Will says, "I'm going to take JJ back to her room so she can rest. Would you like to join me for dinner in the cafeteria?"

My mom stands and pats my hand. "I told you on the plane to call me Fran," she says to Will with a smile.

They head out of the room, my mom placing a warm hand on Emily's arm as she walks through the doorway. and then it's just me and Emily. She stays near the door for a few seconds, staring at me. I scoot over in the bed and pat the space next to me. She closes the door to the room, approaches me slowly, tosses her jacket on the chair and then barely sits her body on the bed; she looks like she's ready to bolt the second anything is said that might spook her.

I raise my eyebrow and pat the bed again, and she scoots more fully on the mattress. I reach for her hand and she doesn't pull away from me; she lets me link my fingers with hers and smiles at me.

"I'm so sorry about Clyde," I say. "He saved my life."

She nods and looks down. "He did. And he went out like he wanted to in the end."

"What do you mean? Catch me up, Emily. Reid and Rossi weren't talking about it in front of my mom, and this is the first time my mom's left the room."

Emily starts talking, walking me through the day before, from the time she left with Helena until she entered a bidding room with Helena. As she's talking, I tug on her arm gently. She doesn't resist, just carefully turns her body until she's laying on her side and facing me in the bed.

It feels like home, being beside her, but she's still closed off. Her recollection of the past twenty-four hours is an emotionless monotone.

"Then what happened?" I ask.

She finally chokes up when she describes the shows that went on before the auction, and takes me through the rest of the night, right up until she pulled Clyde out of that burning house.

I swallow back my own nausea at the details and wish like hell she never had to see that or that anyone ever had to experience that, but I don't want to put a stop to her talking. I kiss her forehead and she lets me.

She skips over a bit and launches into her complex interrogation plans and concludes with, "Penelope and Hotch are flying to Antwerp right now. Penelope to get her hands on Stancu's computer equipment and organize everything we'll need for tomorrow, and Hotch to assist her and stay abreast of situations as they come up. I'll get on the Interpol jet very early tomorrow morning."

I raise my eyebrows at her plan. "Do you think it will work?"

She nods. "All organized crime is a house of cards. The house of cards built on immense wealth is the easiest to blow over because people always think their money makes them infallible and untouchable. It's just a matter of finding the weakest support cards and exploiting them the right way."

"A Clyde-ism?" I ask.

She smiles slightly. "Yes. And it's always proven to be true. Except with Doyle, because our surveillance before we went in was wrong. We all thought Declan was the maid's son, but he was Doyle's. Two months in with him, he told me he was Declan's father and asked me to parent Declan. I declined, but then I realized Declan was Ian's weakest card in his horrific little house. So I started pretending that I wasn't just Lauren, I was a mother figure to Declan, too. And it did me in. It weakened everything in me and made me lose sight of Emily."

Her honesty makes my heart race. No, she's really not that far gone from me. She's just cautious and uncertain.

I watch her shrug her shoulders. "Anyway, this is different. I know who the weakest support cards are in this situation, the ones who are going to start the whole thing toppling. We have enough evidence to bring these people down without doing anything much further except prosecuting them, but there are appeals and delays, and those kids we rescued and are continuing to find need help and peace of mind now. I don't want a single one of them to end up on the witness stand. We'll need full confessions and guilty pleas and we'll get them."

I reach out to run my fingers down her cheek, and her eyes blink shut. When she opens them again, there are tears there. _Not too far gone at all._

"What did you mean when you said Clyde went out like he wanted to?" I ask her.

She glances at the room door to make sure it's still closed and then whispers to me about the cyanide pill.

"I'm sorry, Emily."

"It's okay," she whispers back sadly. "I'm glad I was able to do that for him. I'm glad we got to say goodbye."

"Me, too," I say with a small smile. "How long do you think your critical part in all of this will take, with you leading this investigation with Klaus?"

"A few weeks," she says quietly.

"And then?" I ask.

"I...I don't know."

I want to tell her that if she doesn't come find me, I'm going to come find her, but I think back to Clyde's last words. He said she'd come to me, and in this whole nightmarish mess, he never led us astray. Pushing too much would send Emily running, so I don't push.

I say the only thing I think she needs to hear. "I want nothing to do with Savannah Hayes. I never loved her like I love you." I whisper, and watch as her eyes fill with tears again.

I pull her body slightly until her head is resting on my chest. I run my fingers through her hair before I remember it's a wig. I move my hand to rub her back instead, which irritates my forearm slightly, but I don't care. I just want to keep her physically and emotionally there with me for as long as possible.

 _Promise me you won't give up on her._ Those were the last words Clyde Easter ever spoke to me, but I wasn't able to answer him because his body was pushed off me and Emily was trying to get me standing and out of that house right after he said it.

I'm not a huge believer in heaven, but I look up at the ceiling of my hospital room as if he's up there somewhere and mouth the words, "I promise."


	19. Chapter 19

_September 2, 2015  
Gevangenis Prison, Antwerp_

Last night, overcome by exhaustion and emotion, I fell asleep in Derek's hospital bed with my head on his chest. I woke up at nearly midnight, my arm around him, my wig askew, and Fran Morgan sitting up on a cot that someone had brought into the room, looking at a magazine. I'm not sure how many people wandered in the room when I was sleeping like that, but when I woke up, I immediately felt exposed, which is not a feeling I particularly like.

When I moved to get up, Derek woke up, too, and tightened the arm that was around me.

"I have to go," I whispered. "I'll try to get back here by tomorrow night, but it might not be until the next morning."

He nodded and released me, but the soft light in the room was just enough to see the concern on his face. So I glanced at Fran, who was trying not to look at us, and then I kissed him softly and quickly. "I'll keep you posted," I told him.

I stood from the bed and looked at Fran, who was now looking at me, a kind smile on her face. "Goodnight, Mrs. Morgan," I said awkwardly.

"Goodnight, Emily. And please call me Fran," she replied.

I nodded and moved to the door, glancing back at Derek before I exited the room, smiling reassuringly at him, though I'm not sure if I was trying to reassure myself or him - about us, and about the interrogation plan I'd hatched.

Looking like myself, I was able to get into my office at Interpol and retrieve a spare set of keys to my flat, along with a work credit card. I bought food and then went to my flat to pack, pulling out different potential outfits because I was going to need at least three for the interrogations.

I actively tried _not_ to think about Derek, but it was impossible.

He loves me and I love him, but I'm not sure it's that simple. Then again, I have about zero experience with anything like this.

I tossed and turned in bed and caught cat naps between mini-dreams that made me wake up feeling like I could barely catch my breath. I told myself that it was because I was nervous about today, but a little voice in my head told me the truth. _You've gotten good sleep for weeks because you've been in bed next to Derek Morgan._

It was with bleary, sleep-deprived eyes that I boarded the plane to Antwerp this morning.

Marcus Klaus said he'd have a car pick me up from the airfield outside of Antwerp, so I'm surprised when I step off the Interpol jet and he's there, apparently the driver, and waiting for me. Something must be up.

"Marcus," I nod at him.

He smiles and glances at my luggage. "Planning to stay awhile?" he asks with a smile.

I shake my head. "I'll need a few different outfits for today."

He nods and his smile falters. "I'm sorry about Clyde. I'm going to miss him terribly."

I push back the rise of emotions within me. My only way through this is to stay focused on the task at hand. "I'm sorry, too. Is everything ready?"

"Yes, but I wanted to touch base with you before we go in. I'm slightly concerned about the end game of this plan, that it's going to come off badly for us, and Belgian prisons can hardly afford another hit."

He's right. As it was, Belgium was renting prison cells from the Netherlands for the next three years, as a means to combat widely-publicized overcrowding. In order to accommodate all the arrests made the other night, Marcus had the entire wing of a prison cleared. He moved people around quickly, the most well-behaved prisoners transferred to a dorm at the military academy here, under heavy guard. For them, this was probably a welcome vacation.

"I'll make sure you don't, Marcus. Please trust me. There's no guarantee the end game will happen in Antwerp. I do believe it will, but it won't be what people remember about this case. What they are going to remember in the end is your name and the critical part the federal police played in putting an end to this whole thing."

He considers me for a few seconds and then nods. "OK, let's go then. I'd like to clone that Penelope of yours. She was in Stancu's encrypted computer files in under thirty minutes. I have people sorting through the information, pulling out the people in various countries who appear were purchased like Morgan was."

I grin. That's good news, and I'd like to clone Penelope Garcia, too.

We make the twenty minute drive to the prison in silence. Hotch and Penelope are waiting for me in an office when I arrive, dressed as Emily. Penelope has a stack of folders in her arms and is dressed in a business suit, ready to go.

I don't want to discuss this anymore at all. This is either going to work, or it's not, and I'm ready to jump in. "All set?" I ask.

Hotch smiles grimly at me. "Everyone's separated out like you asked. Adrian is in an isolated cell, under suicide watch. The six "family members," including Helena, are in interrogation rooms under guard. Seventy-six people are in a wing of cells here and the loudspeaker system is set up. The sixteen people we arrested who are under twenty-five years old with no records of their names or prints in any system anywhere are gathered in a classroom here. None of them have attorney representations. None of them have asked. But we created quite a stir with the seventy-six older people when we started pulling them from their cells."

"Good," I say simply. "Perfect. Let's start with those sixteen."

I take off my suit jacket and hang it on the back of a chair in the office. I unbutton my blouse at the wrists and roll up the sleeves. I'm going for casual and non-threatening here. I'm pretty sure those sixteen people were once small children, kidnapped and used and sold. Sam has committed his fair share of crimes under the guise of being our informant, but he's going to walk away. I'm going to give these sixteen the same opportunity.

I'm led down a dank hallway and into a classroom. Sixteen cuffed, young people in gray jumpsuits sit at desks in near absolute silence, their heads bowed.

Marcus, Hotch and Penelope come in with me. Marcus nods at the four guards to exit the room. There are two cameras in here, taping everything.

I take the group in. From here I can see that quite a few have scar tissue around their necks, from repeated use of a tight collar throughout the years. The teenage girl I saw that one night with Helena is here, which gives me confidence that this is the right thing to do. It also makes me know that she, and probably others, lied about their ages when they were arrested.

I sit on the edge of the desk at the front of the room. "Hello," I say softly. "My name is Emily Prentiss, Director of London Interpol, and I first want to start off by asking if any of you would like an attorney. We have attorneys from various countries here who are available, should you want representation."

Heads stay bowed, except for two, a young man and young woman, probably just about twenty years old. The young man speaks in German, and Marcus nods. He repeats everything I've just said in German. Their heads bow again when he starts to speak.

My eyes are glancing around the room and they keep coming back to one young woman with auburn hair. She doesn't look up, but I can see her glancing at me from the corner of her eye.

When Marcus is done translating, I ask in Italian, Russian, French and Spanish if anyone else needs help understanding. No one else apparently does, so I get to it.

"We don't believe you are part of this. We don't believe you were at the house last night because you chose to be, nor do we believe you have ever willingly participated in the purchasing or abuse of any child. We believe that you were once probably children who were at that same auction house. We believe that some of you are still minors yourself."

Slight shuffling, but still no one looks up. These poor people have been conditioned and abused for years.

"We are prepared to offer you a deal, and the attorneys here will put it in writing. Interpol has offices in all of your home countries and will work with the prosecutors in your country of origin to make sure whatever deal we make here will be carried out when you get home. You'll serve no jail time. You will serve a probationary period while you acclimate yourself back into the world. You'll be extradited to your home countries and we'll try to help you find your families. You'll be given a court-appointed guardian for the countries who have such programs. If your home country does not, someone from Interpol will be there for you. In exchange, we need your statements."

I don't mention monetary compensation yet, even though I plan to make sure they get their fair share. Their confessions get flimsy if they know they'll get paid. I'll tell them later, or Marcus will. They need therapy and deserve a chance to get their feet under them, with careful watch to make sure they aren't so far gone that they start committing the crimes once committed against them.

The young woman with the red hair glances up slightly while Marcus is translating what I just said into German, and I get a glimpse of her eyes for the first time. Penelope gasps quietly. We've both seen this woman before, though a much younger version. The hair is more auburn than red now, and the freckles are all but gone; her face has lost all of its childhood roundness and the nose has matured, but I'm sure it's her. Penelope brought home a picture of her on her laptop a couple weeks ago, when she was walking the team through using her computers.

Penelope slides me a folder and I glance at it. The woman gave her name as Felicity Myers, and said she was the daughter of a couple we also had in custody. She also stated her age as nineteen, but I know that's not true.

"Melissa McCarthy?" I ask. She flinches. I step towards her and crouch down so that I'm at about eye level, if she looks up. "Missy. That's what everyone called you. You lived in Alexandria, Virginia with your mother and father and younger sister. You were taken nearly eight years ago, when you were nine years old. I believe the man who kidnapped you is now dead. Your family has never stopped looking for you."

I watch her crumble. Her shoulders shake and tears start to fall from her eyes.

"Felicity," a red-headed young man hisses. "We'll get in so much trouble."

I look at him. "No one that is in those jail cells is walking free, and the homes you've lived in have already been raided or are about to be. Adults will be arrested and children will be removed. Your stories will help solidify cases against the adults still in your home, but the people who were arrested last night can't hurt you. Please trust me on that."

He stares me down, and Melissa looks closely at my face. "My parents won't want me back now, after everything I've done," she sobs.

I reach forward and touch her hand. "I know they will. It will be hard, and you'll all need therapy and help, but they love you and they'll absolutely want you back. None of this was your fault."

I glance up and realize that the heads are no longer bowed; fifteen pairs of eyes are on me and Missy.

Thirty seconds later, the red-headed young man pipes up with a trepidatious, emotional voice. "Felicity and I were taken the same year. We've lived with Master and Mistress since then. My name was Ronan, and I'm from Ireland. Are my parents looking for me?"

"Ronan O'Donovan?" Penelope interjects.

He nods, his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

"You were kidnapped a couple of months before Melissa, on your walk home from school. Your parents searched and searched for you for months. And they haven't stopped, Ronan. If you'd like, I can show you their facebook page, where they constantly post age-progressed photos of you."

He sobs and bends his head again. "I'll do it. I'll make a statement. Whatever you want."

I realize what we're looking at here, and have to fight to control my emotions. These young people were likely the chosen ones, the pure ones, over the past several years. They were bought and integrated into the household of their purchasers. They weren't re-sold or murdered. Much like Derek, the two pure children each year were probably sold with the understanding that they either stayed with their purchaser forever, were returned to Adrian, or were killed.

Like Dmitri and Ryan, Adrian had an issue with poor people, either because they were fighters or just an aversion in general. The children who were taken off the streets, like Sam, were throw-aways to him. I'm willing to bet that none of the bodies found in Adrian's catacomb were the two children from good homes specifically hand-selected each year.

"Is anyone _not_ interested in making a statement?" I ask.

All sixteen pairs of eyes are on me now, and no one is bowing down. "I think my name was Ben," one young man whispers. I bite my inner cheek to keep it together. Penelope clears her throat and starts handing out pads of paper to everyone.

"I'll help you find your families. I won't give up until I do," she says.

I turn to Marcus and ask him to bring the guards back in and have the attorneys come in. "The guards are going to be here only as a measure of safety and reassurance. I don't believe you would hurt anyone."

I turn to Marcus. "Take off their cuffs. They've all been chained up enough for a lifetime."

The first weak link in this house of cards successfully handled, I return to the office, where I pull off my wig and smooth down my red hair. I use wipes on the black make-up on my eyebrows, to reveal the red. I excuse myself to change into a black satin blouse, which I leave unbuttoned slightly more than I normally would, and designer jeans with boots. I put diamond earrings in my ears, like the ones she's used to seeing there. I put in my blue contacts and apply the perfume I've worn since the first night I walked into Club Equinox.

I return to the office and look at Penelope. I'm not sure I'd absolutely need her to do this, but Helena responds well to kindness and praise, and getting her ruffled and uncertain and scared before giving her warmth is probably our best and fastest route to a confession.

"Ready?" I ask Penelope.

She doesn't look overly emotional; she looks pissed off as hell. "Absolutely ready."

We're led down a hallway and I stay behind the one-way mirror with Hotch and Marcus while Penelope confidently enters Helena's interrogation room. Helena looks worn-out and bedraggled, with dark rings under her eyes and a nasty bruise on her forehead from where I hit her with the gun. Marcus said she hasn't uttered a word since they brought her in, but she looks up immediately when Penelope enters.

"Anna?" Helena whispers.

Pen slams some folders on the table, making Helena jump. "Anna was my undercover name, and her personality is mild compared to my real one. I'm Garcia and I'm with the FBI."

 _Good job,_ I think. _No first name. Plenty of people in the FBI with the same last name, and she didn't lie and say she was an agent._

Out of the corner of my eye I see Hotch nod.

Penelope takes a breath and sits down. Her voice is harsh, much worse than the voice that snapped at me with around this time yesterday when I was being evasive about Derek.

"First things first - this conversation is being recorded. Do you understand?"

Helena looks down and doesn't speak. Garcia slams her hand on the table. "You have to answer Helena. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"Do you want legal representation?"

"No. I'm not planning to tell you anything."

"We'll see."

"Was Irina an undercover agent?" Helena asks in a wounded voice.

"It makes no difference," Penelope continues. "What matters is all the evidence we have against you. You started when? Your freshman year at Oxford? How did Adrian start with you? What parts of this were your idea? How many of the bodies of children that we found under Adrian's home in Tuscany were you responsible for? We pulled out forty-six when all was said and done. And then there was the paper this morning, and a story about a young man who was kidnapped back in 1999. He says the woman who bought him was named Migs, but now we think it was Meg. When you sold him again, is that when you changed your name to Helena?"

Garcia's voice had steadily risen in volume as she spoke, and Helena's hands were starting to shake.

"I know nothing about any dead bodies," Helena whispers after a few seconds.

Penelope slams her hand on the table again. "I don't believe you! You know what's going to be interesting? When your name gets out to the papers, and it will. Imagine what your mother and father will think? Your father who worked in a factory his whole life and still does, all to save so you could go to college and pay off your student loans for you, and you repay him by living comfortably while raping children!"

Helena bites her lip and tears fill her eyes.

"Stop crying!" Penelope yells. "Your tears aren't going to save you. You're never getting out of prison, _Meaghan._ "

At that point I open the door. "Garcia, enough," I say softly, still with my Irina accent.

Helena's head snaps up and her eyes open wide. Garcia stands in a huff. "You do have a soft spot for her, don't you? Have at it," she snarls at me before leaving the room, slamming the door behind her.

I sit. "Helena," I say softly.

"You...you were an undercover agent?" she asks.

I nod. "I was. But, I did come to have some empathy for you when I learned how this started for you. You were just just eighteen when you met Adrian, and I know your life would have been much different if you'd never met him."

Helena sobs and nods. She has to bend her head forward to reach her face with her hands since she's shackled. "It was all a lie, how you felt about me?" she whimpers.

I reach my hand out and touch her arm. "Not all of it. There were many times when I enjoyed your company, when there was no one else around. But when smoke started filling that bidding room and you panicked, I panicked, too. I had to stop you from killing yourself, because it was my job. I've felt bad about hitting you in the head ever since," I say while keeping my eyes on hers.

"I can't believe this is happening," she whispers. "Adrian told us we were supposed to die before we ever got caught. That's how it was supposed to work."

"About that. Helena, I need to let you know that Claire, Kristoff, Eric, Robert, and Peter along with three others are dead. Adrian's here, along with five others. But I wanted to talk with you first. I'm sorry about Garcia; when I was delayed, she jumped in here. Can we start over?" I smile gently at her.

She hesitates.

"Look, Helena. There is no way you're getting out of this. There's far too much evidence. I wish I could offer you something for your testimony, but I can't. What you can do - for yourself and your parents and for me - is tell the truth now. OK?"

"OK," she finally says.

"OK," I say with another soft smile. "Do you understand that this conversation is being recorded?"

"Yes," she says.

"And would you like legal counsel?"

"No."

I have her exactly where I want her now. I'm not worried about her confession sticking; we just want the whole picture and to make sure there aren't any children we're missing. If this goes how I think it will, her confession will be meaningless when it comes to her anyway. She has yet to ask me what my real name is, and that's fine, too. Perfect, actually.

I strum my fingers on the table and I know Hotch or Marcus has now turned on the audio recorder that's attached to video camera that's mounted in the corner of the room. Now Helena's remaining brothers and sisters will hear in their interrogation rooms exactly what she's saying.

"It started when you were eighteen, your freshman year at Oxford…" I lead.

She nods and reaches forward. She puts her hand in mine, and I let her. I even give it a little squeeze. "Yes. Adrian called us all in for individual appointments our first month. After that, he started organizing social events, and they gradually became more isolated events with a smaller guest list. He was an attractive man with a lot of family money. All of us girls and a few of the guys had crushes on him. The guys who didn't were at least infatuated with him…"

She talks and talks and doesn't stop; once she gets started, she just needs to get it all out. She tells about the summer after her freshman year when Adrian invited the fourteen of them to his family's home in Tuscany for the summer. And that's when the S&M games started. They escalated from there. The first children, a twelve year old girl and her nine year old brother, were introduced to the group the summer after their junior year. She doesn't know what happened to them after that summer, but after that Adrian, who had recorded it all, said they were forever bound to him or they'd spend the rest of their lives in prison.

It was a cunning, years-long process of brainwashing. The first auction with fourteen children occurred in 1998. The money was good, and it was just how they lived after a few years. Besides, she told me, there's something so powerful and special about taking a child, and then being his or her first. I almost screamed at that, but I kept my hand in hers and let her keep talking.

She throws the whole family under a bus, including herself. The more she talks, the farther away her eyes get.

If one of the kidnapped children was returned to Adrian and Adrian deemed he or she was not suitable for re-sale, whoever originally kidnapped that child was responsible for disposing of him or her with Adrian.

"How many children did you help dispose of?" I ask quietly so as not to spook her. I use her word, _disposed,_ figuring _murder_ will spook her.

"Four," she answers.

"Can you remember who helped dispose of the other children we found in Tuscany?"

She nods. "Some of them. But my bodies are not in Tuscany. They're under the auction house where you bought your FBI agent, along with about twenty others."

"We haven't found that house yet."

"It's property that belonged to Claire's uncle. She inherited it, but it's still under the name of his trust. Her last name is different. I designed the auction room and we dug out the basement. It's outside Loughton," she says and then smiles conspiratorially. "I couldn't believe it when you rented the estate in Theydon Garnon. We had to drive you around for two hours when the houses were just about fifteen minutes apart."

"How ironic," I answer with a fake smile.

I pick up the pen that's on the table and run the edge of it over my lips while she looks at me.

"Are there other purchasers who weren't at the auction house last night?"

Helena nods. "A few, but they lived with other purchasers. They were probably watching the homes."

"What about people like your driver?" I ask.

"Adrian's cousin. Robert Daniels used to be a guard for us until he was made part of the family," she says in a monotone.

"And did any of the purchasers ever help with the disposal of the children?"

"No," Helena says in an indignant voice, like she can't believe I'd ask such a thing. "That was for family only."

I smile and nod. "I understand. I'm so proud of you, Helena. So very proud." I squeeze her hand. "Tell me, do you think you can remember the names of as many children as possible who were disposed of and who helped Adrian dispose of them?"

Helena nods, not smiling but her eyes beaming at my praise. She's a total fucking psychopath.

"Let's start with your four," I say sweetly.

She starts talking, remembering the first names of thirty-eight of the children who had been murdered, along with where they were taken from and who did it.

When she's done, I have sweat dripping down my back from keeping my emotions in check and not strangling her myself. "I think that's everything," I say neutrally. I stand and move to turn off the camera.

"Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

"When will I be sent back to London?"

"Within the next few weeks, probably. If you _disposed_ of children in England, they'll have the biggest claim to you."

"Will you visit me?"

I shake my head sadly. "It won't be allowed to with my job, Helena. I'm sorry."

She nods and sniffles. "Do you think I can get a mattress and some blankets. It's cold in my cell with just a thin mat on the floor."

I give her a half smile. "I'll see what I can do."

I exit the room to find Penelope with barely contained tears in her eyes and Hotch and Marcus both looking a little pale. "Jesus," Hotch murmurs.

I can't give into any emotions; I'm only half-way done. I hand the paperwork to Penelope. "I'm going to go change back into a suit and put my wig back on. Give me ten minutes."

I walk away with my fists clenched to hide my shaking hands. I change quickly and apply some black eyeshadow over my eyebrows. I'm not overly concerned with them being perfect at this point.

Marcus and I divide and conquer with Helena's five remaining "brothers and sisters." They all look pale and shaken. They'd just heard Helena confess to everything. A few try to argue and say that Helena was lying, but when we present the evidence we have and the fact that we'll find the forensic evidence we need for DNA matches on the dead bodies, they stop arguing and shut up.

We don't really offer them a deal; what we tell them is that in exchange for their signed confessions and guilty pleas we will not intervene should they somehow manage to get through the entire process without their cellmates finding out their names. They don't need a reminder to know what prison will likely look like for them.

They don't take the deal, and refuse to give us anything, but I wasn't expecting them to. To be honest, I'd be more concerned if they did, because that would mean they were considering a trial.

I can almost hear Clyde in my head whispering what I know. _These people were brainwashed into a way of thinking for over two decades, Emily. They only know two things: run or die, but never get caught and go to prison. Make them remember._

When we're done with those five, who don't do as good of a job as they think hiding just how completely off-kilter and scared they are, I go back to the hallway.

"OK. Move Adrian so he's at the cell nearest the door to the yard. And start taking these five out to the yard for exercise. Give Helena her bedding in her cell, but keep her on suicide watch. Move her next to Adrian. Make sure these five are walked right past Adrian's and Helena's cells."

Marcus nods. "OK, _Clyde_."

I smile slightly at that. "The attorneys for the purchasers are all here?" I ask.

"Yes, in a waiting area," Hotch says.

"Let them in next to their client's cells and get me on the loudspeaker."

Hotch goes to get them, and Marcus guides me to a room that overlooks the cells and contains a microphone. We watch as the attorneys file in.

"Adrian can hear this, right?" I ask.

"Yes," says Marcus.

"Hello," I say into the speaker. "My name is Emily Prentiss, Director of London Interpol. Is there anyone here who needs a translator? Just place your arm outside your cell if you do."

Four arms appear.

"What language?" I ask.

"French," one attorney shouts. The other shouts, "German."

I nod at Marcus.

We say the sentences in English, German and French.

 _The younger people who came in with you are writing statements. They've vowed to testify against you should it come to that, but I'd prefer it didn't. Let me tell you what I know._

 _Adrian Stancu was the name of the man from whom you purchased children and adults; I'm not sure how many of you knew that. I'm sure your business dealings with him took place while he was in a mask. He probably told you that everything was secure and you'd never be caught, and after years, you fully believed him. The problem is, he had a man working for him who encrypted his computer files. That man's name was Eric Clarke, and I'm sure he thought he fully protected those files. But we have someone better than Eric Clarke._

 _We have video of you at the auctions throughout the years, particularly when you were on stage performing with your purchases. We also have the discoveries we made in your home; other children and forensic evidence. And the money trail, which wasn't as clean as Adrian probably lead you to believe. We know the age and gender of the children you purchased and how much you paid for the past fifteen years._

 _We've been in this job long enough to know that you probably think you loved those children and they loved you and everything you did to them. Save it. We don't want to hear it, and it won't matter to the people you encounter in prison._

 _There will be no deals here about reduced sentences for your testimonies. We don't need them. You will confess to your crimes, in writing and on video tape. You will enter guilty pleas back in your home countries, and sign a restitution agreement for your victims._

 _If you do that, we will offer you the opportunity to serve out your sentence in a medium-security facility rather than a maximum security facility. Believe me, it's what you want. Most of your countries offer a mandatory option for parole after thirty years. You_ probably _won't get parole, but you_ definitely _won't make it thirty years in a maximum security facility once you're labeled as pedophiles and rapists._

 _You have fifteen minutes to decide. Just wave your hand outside the bars of your cell if you'd like this option. And note that if you take this option and we discover any discrepancies between what you say and Adrian's computer files, I'll personally escort you to the worst prison in your country._

I release the mic, and Marcus and I watch below. The first hand moves out of the cell within ten seconds. The rest follow, all within the fifteen minute window.

We grin in satisfaction.

Adrian's my last stop on this long day, but I don't give him much of my time. Dressed back as Irina, but a slightly more imposing version of her with adjusted makeup and different jewelry, I pull a chair up outside of his cell and open a laptop. I turn the screen around so he can see it. I start playing videos he had on there of him with young children. I play a video of the purchasers. I open his database and start scrolling through his data.

"Eric Clarke was a half-wit. It took our technical analyst less than thirty minutes to get through his encryption." I say.

Then I play the video of Helena talking about the murders.

When that's over, he doesn't look much better than I did after he'd beaten me for thirty minutes. I'd just beaten him down without touching him at all.

I smile at his face that he's trying to keep impassive, but I can see the beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead and the accelerated pulse at the base of his neck.

"What do you want from me?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say. "Absolutely nothing, Adrian. I wanted to make sure the children never had to testify against anyone, and I've taken care of that today. Over forty counts of murder in Italy and all your handy video recordings and financial records? None of these children will ever have to face you at your trial for you to go away for life."

I pause and lean forward in my chair. "You're going to be extradited to Italy first. You know how overcrowded their prisons are. Everyone will know who you are and what you did; someone will make sure of that. We're going to make sure you end up in the filthiest cell in the worst possible prison with a few too many cellmates, and let nature take its course."

I close the laptop and stand up. I'm two steps away when he screams, "You bitch! You fucking bitch! I should have fucked you to death when I had the chance!"

I pause and turn. I laugh out loud. "As if that thing you call a dick could ever fuck anyone to death."

He continues to scream as I walk away, but I don't register his words. I make it as far as the bathroom where my suit is hanging before I sink to the floor and catch my breath.

* * *

We call in Interpol reinforcements to help sort through the immense amount of paperwork, and I tell Hotch and Garcia that I'm going to take some time to go check in on the children. Marcus gives me the address to one of the safe houses that's about twenty minutes outside of Antwerp and lets me borrow a car.

When I arrive, it's slightly surreal. There are two social workers and seven children at this house; two had already been returned to their families.

A few of the kids are quietly watching TV and a few are coloring, but none of them are talking. They seem worn out, and I don't blame them. Their day had been full of therapy sessions, and they're all being weaned off valium right now, so that likely contributes to their lethargy.

There's one little boy sitting in the corner in a ball with his head buried in his arms. He has brown curly hair and looks to be around eight years old. I raise my eyebrow at the social worker nearest me.

"His name is Leon Bache. He's the youngest that was brought in, just seven. He mostly speaks French. He grew up in a bidonville outside Paris. He said he was taken the first day of June. French police went to try and locate his mother yesterday afternoon, and they found her passed out with a needle in her arm. She never reported him missing. But a social worker I know in Paris has found him a lovely temporary home. We told him he'd be going in a couple of days, and he's been like that ever since."

I move slowly and sit next to him on the ground and he lifts his head. I see his stunning blue eyes, and know with certainty that this little boy was the one Helena was talking about.

"Bonjour, je m'appelle Emily," I say softly.

He stares at me, but does not speak.

"On me dit que vous allez obtenir un endroit pour vivre bientôt. _I'm told you're going to get a new place to live soon._

He opens his heart-shaped lips. "Vont-ils être mauvais ou sale?" _Will they be bad or dirty?_

I open my eyes wide and shake my head. I speak in French, "No, Leon. You might not be there forever, but they are good people."

"The man with the roses told me when he was done with me the first time that only bad or dirty people would ever want me again, and only he would find me places to live," Leon responds with tears in his eyes.

"The man with the roses is named Adrian. He's in jail now, and he won't ever get out. And he's very wrong. Something scary and bad happened to you, but you are beautiful and wonderful and good. And wonderful and good people will want you."

Leon puts his head back in his arms. "How do _you_ know?"

"I don't know for sure, but I believe. Did you know that Leon means 'little lion'? Do you know who King Arthur and Lancelot are?"

Leon looks back up at my face and nods slightly. "My teacher read about them."

"Did you know that Lancelot had a cousin named Lionel, which is the same as Leon? Imagine, you were named after someone who was a cousin to Lancelot!"

His little lips curve into something that resembles an uncertain smile. "How do you know about that?" he asks.

"My grandfather. He told me the story many times," I respond. He had. He loved Arthurian Folklore and I can still remember his voice booming throughout his cabin in the French Alps, retelling the stories. It was one of the only times his voice didn't fill me with a bit of trepidation, because he may have been booming, but he was happy.

Leon smiles slightly and then his face falls. "I'm not dirty?" he whispers.

I tentatively reach my arm out and place it around his shoulders. "No, Leon. You're not at all. You have bright blue eyes and a warm smile and I can tell you have a good heart. You're not dirty or bad at all. You're a little boy who had bad things happen to you, but that's over now. There are going to be people who help you remember that goodness inside you. That is what I believe."

Leon smiles, and it's gap-toothed with some teeth that could definitely use a dentist, but it's bright all the same.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I stand. "I need to go now, but I'll check in on you from time to time to see how you're doing. You be a strong knight, okay Leon?"

He nods and I feel his eyes on mine as I step out of the house.

It's Marcus. "It happened just like you thought it would," he says, a cross between exhaustion and disbelief. He goes on to tell me the story...

The five remaining brothers and sisters passed by Adrian's cell on their way to the yard. They were reminded of who they were and what they were supposed to do. Adrian whispered to them, "Chidren, avete del lavoro da fare." _Children, you have work to do._

They went for the death-by-cop option, making a break for the fence while they were in the yard together.

When the guns went off, the two guards keeping an eye on Adrian and Helena ran to the yard to provide back-up. Helena took the opportunity to hang herself.

A guard rushed back near Adrian's cell just as he was trying to bite into his wrist. The guard stopped him, and Adrian is on lock down suicide watch now.

I'm not worried about him. He's either going to kill himself before he gets to Italy, or shortly after, once he catches a glimpse of his future. He'll never make it to trial.

No one is going to weep for these people.

The children won't have to testify, monetary restitution will be forthcoming sooner rather than later, and over seventy people will pay for these crimes.

Not once will Derek Morgan's name and that one night on stage with me and three others come up.

I disconnect with Marcus and call Nick. I tell him to run the story around eleven o'clock tonight, the one we wrote the day before, giving an expose on the family from Clyde's perspective.

And then I call Derek's hospital room.

He answers with a raspy, worried, "Emily?"

I cave into my emotions. I need to get on a plane and announce a press conference for the next morning, but his voice makes me come undone. Just him saying my name pulls me back in touch with a woman who is not able to turn it entirely off; who carries deep emotion and pain and fear that I've always previously locked down.

Curled up in the front seat of one of Marcus's unmarked police vehicles, outside of a safe house where there are innocent victims of this atrocity, I sob into the phone. I realize a second later that I'm curled up in the front seat of that car just like Leon was, knees up and my head in my arms, with the phone against my ear and Derek's voice shushing me and saying, "I'm here."


	20. Chapter 20

_September 3, 2015  
Broomfield Hospital  
Chelmsford, Essex_

To say I talked to Emily last night on the phone for several hours would be erroneous. She told me the plan had gone as she had predicted, and after that we didn't talk much at all; we breathed together. She stayed connected with me while she drove to the airfield. She stayed on the line while she boarded the Interpol jet. She breathed in my ear during the entire, short flight, and then she continued to breathe in my ear when she got in her car and drove back to her flat, opting out of coming to the hospital because of the media frenzy.

My mother watched me the entire time.

She'd asked me about what was going on with me and Emily yesterday morning, and I hadn't been able to give her any solid answers, except that I loved Emily, had loved her for a long time, and I knew I'd be going back to DC the next day, that there were reports to file with Brooklyn PD and the FBI, and that Emily needed to stay here for awhile.

I didn't tell my mom that my plan was to wait patiently at home because some man who was now dead, but ethereally insightful and profoundly prophetic had told me that she would come to me eventually.

Yesterday afternoon, I did something I swore I'd never do: I told my wonderful, loving mother about Carl Buford. Ari arrived in my hospital room with his mom, who wept and hugged me and kissed my cheeks and thanked me over and over again for not giving up. When they left, my mother, with tears in her eyes, asked me if I intended to find a safer job when my burns had healed, and I shook my head and told her, "No." And I told her why.

For all these years, she thought my obsession with Carl Buford was because of what I learned he did to other young boys - I'd eluded to as much, and she believed me.

I didn't get into the nitty, gritty details, but I told her enough so she got the picture. I have to say that I'd never felt like such a wretched human being in my life as I did when I watched my mother shed those tears for the young boy she thought she'd protected after my father died.

She cried, I cried. She got angry and vented her rage in the form of, "I want dig that man up and kill him myself."

 _Been there, Mom,_ I thought in my head. But I didn't voice that. I let her run through her emotions, until, finally exhausted, she sat in the chair next to my bed. She said, "I always thought the reason you went into law enforcement was because of your father, but it was because of Carl, wasn't it?"

And I nodded my head, my final layer of obfuscation with my mother revealed.

I've always given my mother a lot of credit and labeled her as strong and understanding, but she surpassed that. She said to me, "You're going to keep doing this job until you physically can't anymore or until the anger and hurt inside you has slayed the last bad guy, aren't you?"

And I touched her face. I trailed my fingers down her beautiful, understanding face, and I nodded my head.

"And I'll support you," she said. "At least now I know. I think a part of me knew back nearly a decade ago when you came for my birthday and were arrested. I was just too afraid to ask," she said. And then she sobbed again; these were tears for her little boy, and they went on and on until I didn't know where my tears and her tears started or ended, until they all merged together in a pool of sorrow and regret too large to capture or contain in words.

When she finally exhausted, we both napped. And then I woke up several hours later and started staring at the clock, waiting for word from Emily. When she finally called, my emotions rose right back to the surface again, because she was so broken, and I couldn't be there.

But we stayed connected for several hours, breathing strength into each other. When she landed in London and realized there was media outside the gates of the airfield, she determined she couldn't come to the hospital right away.

Instead, she drove to her flat and got into her building before the media swarmed.

And we stayed on the phone. I fell asleep last night with the cadence of her breath in my ear, and I'm sure she heard the same. Her phone must have died in the middle of the night, because I woke up at four o'clock in the morning to the sound of a dial tone in my ear.

She didn't call me back, and I knew she was trying to get herself together, so I didn't call her. Instead, I turned on my TV around six o'clock in the morning and waited.

When she appears on the TV screen outside London Interpol a little after seven-thirty in the morning, there's not a single person who would think she was emotionally fragile like she was the night before. She commands the cameras even better than she did two nights ago. She confirms the story that ran on the wire the night before. She talks of confessions and irrefutable evidence.

" _In our effort to make sure confessions were viable, we gave the people we arrested the best accommodations we could. This included bedding and time outside. We separated the leaders of this ring of sex traffickers in the way I thought was best. It was my decision, and I don't regret it. The two most fragile of the bunch, one Helena Meaghan Freeman and one Adrian Stancu, who was the leader of this group, were put on suicide watch while the other five ring leaders were given time out in the yard. They tried to climb the fence late yesterday afternoon. They were given several warnings to stop and shots were fired into the air. When those shots were fired, they continued to climb, and the guns were turned on them. The guards inside rushed the yard to provide back-up. In that confusing, Ms. Freeman took her own life. Mr. Stancu attempted to do the same, but was stopped. All of this is on video which will be released once the oversight committees have reviewed the recordings."_

She pauses and clears her throat. " _Here's what I can tell you for certain: Since 1998, this group has kidnapped and then auctioned off fourteen children every year who were kidnapped from around the world. That's two-hundred-fifty-two children. Most of them were homeless or from unfortunate situations and their names never made the paper or were only briefly mentioned. We have recovered the bodies of seventy-eight of these children. As a result of this past Saturday night, we have rescued over seventy more, many of them now adults. There are approximately one-hundred more out there that we are currently searching for. We have full confessions from over seventy adults who purchased these children. There were also adults kidnapped and sold throughout the years; we've found twelve of them, but there are still more out there._

I watch her go on to mention a hotline for people to call with leads for any remaining children or adults. She applauds the Belgian Federal Police as well as the prison and local police in Antwerp. I watch her take questions and answer them honestly and easily.

One person asks her how she feels about the fact that Clyde Easter leaked information to the press before this case was over, and she stares him down. "If I were in Clyde Easter's position and felt that my life was in danger and therefore there could possibly be children who would continue to suffer at the hands of these monsters, I would have done the same thing."

The press conference ends shortly after that, and my doctor enters the room. I get released with strict rules, namely that I stay completely off my feet until the blisters heal on their own, which should take approximately three weeks. Hotch shows up, and then Garcia. The team gathers and we head to the airfield, and there's still no Emily.

I know she's incredibly busy, but I'm deeply regretting my decision to let her come to me on her own as Hotch and Reid muscle their way up the stairs of the jet with me between them, so I don't have to put my feet on the ground.

Penelope sits next to me and my mother across from me. My mom touches my knee while Penelope holds my hand. "She's so busy right now. She's been absolutely amazing with all of this, but don't think for a second that she's stopped thinking about you," she whispers to me.

I'm about to ask her for her cell phone when I hear pounding feet on the stairs of the jet and I turn to look at the doorway.

Emily's in her wig and wearing the suit I saw her in when she was on TV earlier this morning. Her eyes land on mine in an instant and she doesn't break that contact to glance at anyone else, but I feel them - all of their eyes are on the two of us.

She walks right at me and crouches down next to my seat. She leans her cheek against mine and whispers in my ear, "You go get well and I'll finish cleaning this up."

I don't ask her, "And then what?" I'm about to, but she moves her head and kisses me, right there in front of everyone, which is so unlike any form of her I've ever known that it fills me to overflowing with hope.

I watch, slightly stunned, as she says goodbye to the rest of the team, Will and my mom. She hugs Penelope extra long, and she drops a gentle hand on JJ's stomach after they hug. "Thank you," she says to Hotch and then trails her watery eyes over everyone on the plane.

She returns to me when she's done with her goodbyes. "I'll talk to you soon," she says. And then she bends down and whispers, "I love you," in my ear.

She's on the verge of breaking down; I can sense that, so when she bolts from the plane, it doesn't surprise me. If I had even one working foot, I would have hobbled after her, but I don't. My mom and Penelope are staring at my face, and everyone else is studiously trying not to. I lean my head back on the seat and close my eyes. I try to breath and calm down my emotions, but I don't quite catch them in time. I feel the tears in my eyes and I feel it as one tear makes it past my closed eyelids and starts sliding down my cheek.

Before I can reach up and swipe it away, I feel a hand on my face, wiping it away for me. At first I think it's Penelope. But it's my mom. "The only time I ever saw someone look at me like she just looked at you was when your father was alive. I don't believe anybody just walks away from a love like that. You believe it, too."

* * *

 _September 21, 2015  
Chelsea, London  
_

Clyde Easter had been busy since he'd first received his diagnosis. It didn't surprise me that he didn't want a public funeral, according to his will. What did surprise me was that he left me responsible for his ashes with no directive at all. It wasn't entirely shocking that he left everything he owned to me. What did surprise me was that he'd already spared me the exhaustive task of cleaning out his expansive flat. In June, apparently, he'd moved into a much smaller, furnished flat right in the heart of London; when I got the keys from his attorney and drove there to take a look, I found very few personal effects. There were two boxes, sealed and with my name on them, and they contained mostly books - cookbooks, fiction and non-fiction - along with a few pictures of the two of us and our old team. And one jacket. His own, self-designed, tactical jacket that he'd had made years before. He called it his lucky jacket.

I have no idea what he did with his medals and various awards he'd received through the years. He seemed to be telling me something with what he left behind, and the only thing I could think was that he was trying communicate that the contents of these boxes was representative of who he really was as a person, or at least the person he'd like me to remember.

So I took the boxes back to my flat, and I put his urn on top of them. I spent many nights sitting on my couch, wearing his jacket, sipping wine and staring at those boxes and the urn, like he was going to somehow materialize from his ashes and tell me what to do.

Because I still didn't know.

I've spoken with Derek on the phone a few times a week since he left, and we've texted nearly every day. The conversations at first were emotional, but that's died down quite a bit. It's not Derek; I'm shutting down. I can feel it happening, piece by broken piece of me inside of my heart.

I was doing fine for awhile, cleaning up the mess here and around Europe, watching over the children and their reunification with their families and the placement of those who did not have families. I was right up the ass of the trusts that were created for each of them. I was there when Melissa McCarthy's parents arrived from Virginia, and I personally flew with Leon to France so he could meet his foster parents.

The vengeance within me rose when Adrian was being sent back to Italy, and I sat on that plane with a gun in my lap, staring him down the whole flight. Once he was booked into the prison in Italy, I returned home. Sometime that night, while I was dyeing my hair back to its original color, Adrian Stancu was gang raped and beaten within an inch of his life. Somehow, it wasn't as satisfying as I thought it would be. And he's still hanging in there.

Worse than that is the fact that last week I got word that Kristoff was HIV positive.

It shouldn't have surprised me; a group of fifteen people simply does not have that much unprotected sex with that many people for that many years and walk away disease-free. But it still was a virtual punch in my gut. His viral count was very low, and the odds that he transmitted it to me is around 1-5%, according to my doctor. My blood work is clean now, but I'll have to be tested again in about ten weeks to know for sure.

The news shifted things in my mind. I wasn't feeling like a victim up until that point, but I've spent countless hours in the shower since then, like enough water and soap and tears and scrubbing is going to build a barrier between me and a disease that may or may not be taking root and sprouting wings inside me right now.

I can't even imagine telling Derek. His guilt and angst would cause a chasm that I'm not sure we could bridge. Before I received that news, I could imagine us overcoming the horrors that have already transpired. I could actually see us letting all of that go and moving forward into someplace good for both of us. But I can't imagine heaping potential HIV onto that, nor can I imagine potentially risking his health again, even with condoms.

The news about Kristoff's HIV status severely muddied the waters in my mind, then brought to the surface all of my insecurities and issues surrounding relationships, which, when I list them are about a mile long. It was an unwelcome, but perhaps necessary, reality check.

I know Derek's getting anxious, wondering what's next for us. I told him that it would be a few weeks where me being here would be a necessity, and that necessity is nearly over.

I sigh and stand up from where I'm sitting vigil over Clyde's ashes. I wrap his jacket more firmly around my body and head to the kitchen to pour myself another glass of wine. As I pass my front door, I notice an envelope partially shoved under it.

I open the door and look down the hallway, but no one is there. I pick up the envelope and gasp at the flowing script that is as familiar to me as my own. _Emily,_ it says. In Clyde's handwriting.

I close the door and rip the envelope open, then lean against the wood surface and sink to the ground as I begin to read.

 _31 August 2015_

 _Emily,_

 _I'm on the ferry heading towards Belgium, and I'm feeling disgustingly nostalgic and emotional. The idea that we might not get to really talk to each other again is weighing heavily on me. I've tried to say what I needed to say, but I'm worried I haven't said enough._

 _Last March I was experiencing some headaches and mild dizziness. Nothing too alarming, but I mentioned it to my doctor at my annual physical. He ran some scans and found a tumor. I saw two specialists; both confirmed that it was inoperable._

 _When my headaches started increasing at the beginning of August, I originally pondered the idea of whisking you away someplace warm for a week and being annoyingly therapeutic with you about the direction of your life._

 _Then you called me and told me Derek Morgan had been taken._

 _When Interpol only gave me two million dollars, I knew we'd need more. So I transferred my own money out of various accounts to pad our bank account. All of my assets are left to you in my will, and I figured you'd spend that money on Derek Morgan in a heartbeat anyway._

 _I have to tell you that despite the hell of this case, working alongside you again has been a greater gift than any week in a tropical climate could ever be. It allowed me to remember who you were, and get to know better who you are now._

 _I will not bore you with a psychoanalysis of you. Deep down, you know who you are, too. But I will tell you this: You have true love to give to this world and another person. If you don't think you can do it, consider going into a loving relationship like you would an undercover assignment, where you get to be Emily Prentiss this time, and you allow yourself the time and use your brilliant mind to figure things out._

 _Derek Morgan is a good man, Emily. Though I don't admit this lightly, I think he's a far better man than I ever could hope to be. He's managed to keep his heart out there and open despite the horrors he's seen and experienced. And he's offering his heart to you._

 _You should take it._

 _My pontification in this letter is almost making me nauseous. Who am I, and what have I done with Clyde Easter? you might be asking. The truth is that knowing my time is limited let me tap into my heart for the first time in three decades. For that reason, there's a part of me that's grateful for my fate._

 _But I wish this end on no one, and especially not on you._

 _I will give this letter to Marcus Klaus and ask him to to give it to you when the time's right, should anything happen to me. If you're reading this now, it means I'm dead, and you're approaching the end of the road in terms of having to be in Europe._

 _Know that I already miss you._

 _I'm going to ask you a question I asked you just a little over three years ago: What the hell are you doing in London? Khalil Gibran wrote, "Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost."_

 _You've given enough and you shouldn't lose anymore. It's time for you to get something beautiful out of this mystery that's called life. It's time for you to go home, Em, and say what you mean._

 _All my love,  
Clyde_

* * *

 _September 26, 2015  
McLean, Virginia_

The moon is bright and nearly full tonight, with an orange-hue. I've been watching the moon every night since I've been home. I've also been watching the sun and the trees and the clouds. I've sat outside through thunderstorms and humid heat. I haven't just noticed the change as the weather moved from summer to fall, I've absorbed it with every ounce of my being.

Being held indoors for nearly a month made me a nomad in my own backyard: At first, I had my mom move a cushioned lounge chair to different areas of the yard depending on the time of day, but a few days ago, I started being able to move it on my own. She's still here with me, but will be leaving tomorrow, and I'll return to work the next day. I'll be on desk duty for awhile, but it still feels like a triumph. My feet are slightly sensitive and I won't be running any marathons just yet, but I can walk just fine.

My days with my mom have mostly been filled with quiet contemplation. She sits in the yard near me, she cooks my meals, and only occasionally asks me anything personal. We play cards sometimes, or Scrabble. She knits and I read. She reads and I nap. And in between there over the course of the past three weeks, she's asked me simple questions about Carl Buford or Emily or Savannah.

I'm honest with her to a point; the Emily questions are the most difficult. I can't tell her everything that happened those few weeks in the house in Theydon Garnon, or on a stage just outside that area. Thanks to Emily and her handling of this whole situation, I barely caused a blip on the media's radar. But that's not why I don't tell my mom. Her ability to keep a secret is intact; her ability to handle another emotional blow when it comes to her son is on shaky ground.

Instead, I've been talking in therapy, twice a week since I've been home. I've been really talking this time, and it's felt like a breath of fresh air to finally say all the things I've always held back. I've done such a good job that after my therapy session yesterday, Hotch came to my house. While I sat absorbing the warm sunlight in the backyard, he told me that I was cleared to return to the BAU.

None of that is on my mind right now, though. My mother is inside doing the dinner dishes; I can hear the clank of plates now and again from the open kitchen window. And I'm right in the middle of the backyard in my lounge chair, staring at the bright, orange moon, and barely hanging on because I haven't heard from Emily in nearly two days. She hasn't returned a text, nor answered her phone, and I'm thinking I might be missing my first day back at work and get on a plane to London instead.

I hear the kitchen get silent and expect my mom to appear in the yard any second. I pick up my phone and contemplate texting Emily again, even though it's the middle of the night in London. I don't turn my head when I hear the sliding door on the patio open, knowing it's my mom.

"La pleine lune de l'équinoxe d'automne," says a voice that reaches right into my soul and expels any darkness inside me.

I turn my head in disbelief, and she's there, her hair just a little longer than it was when she was Irina, but dyed back to its original color. She's dressed comfortably in jeans and a sweater; she's smiling at me and I can't believe she's real. I'm stunned into immobility.

"The full moon of the autumn equinox, even though it's not quite full yet. That's tomorrow," she says as she walks towards me.

She sits on the edge of the lounge chair. Then, much like the night that I walked in her bedroom at the estate in Theydon Garnon and removed my clothes - boldly like we'd always slept like that - she turns her body and lays down, wedging herself in next to me, until her head is on my shoulder and she's looking up at the moon, too.

"The harvest moon," she whispers. "Did you know that in 1970, the harvest moon was set to fall on September 28? That was my due date. I hung in there for another two weeks, but my father always told me that he knew a good crop of love was going to take hold in his heart because my due date was the date of the harvest moon."

No, I didn't know that. Emily's never mentioned her father much at all to me. I'm not sure what to say. She's here like Clyde said she would be, and she's in my arms, her body fitting against mine like it was always meant to be there, and a peace is settling over my heart, but this isn't exactly how I imagined our reunion going.

"Interpol offered me Clyde's position a few days ago," she says. "I declined. In fact, I quit when they offered it to me," she says quietly. She shifts her body so she's laying on her side and facing me. "I have an interview with the Department of Intelligence on Tuesday, for the Director of Policy and Public Relations. It's a different type of job for me, but unless the world is going to shit, it's pretty much going to be regular hours with no travel."

She's a wealth of information and I'm not sure why I'm surprised. Emily would never just walk back into my life without a plan, but I'm still not sure where I stand in all of this, despite her close proximity to me. She's rendered me mute.

I feel her lips brush my cheek, and then she lays back down and looks up at the moon. "Your mom tells me that you're returning to work on Monday and she's flying out tomorrow morning. I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon to look at a rental in Georgetown. Do you think you'd feel up to coming with me?"

I nod automatically, and she lifts her head to look at me. She smiles. "Are you going to talk?" she asks.

I look in her beautiful, wondrous eyes and think about what I could possibly say. "What about 2015?" I ask cautiously. "Is a good crop coming for us?"

Her hand against my chest is a welcome homecoming; her breath against my face is causing every nerve within me to come alive again. "I have a lot of issues, Derek. But I want to work on them here, with you. What we had before was no different than coming together in a life and death situation. I want to start over and go slowly and build something where the foundation isn't desperation."

I can tell by her eyes that there's something she's not telling me, but her words are enough for now. I never expected to crack the vault that was Emily Prentiss in a single day, or even a week, or a month. We aren't a fairytale; we're real life, and tragedy has always been an undercurrent of our togetherness.

Less tragedy and a slower trajectory sounds about right.

"OK," I say. "That sounds good to me."

Her body shifts again until she's elevated her chest and is looking me in the eyes. "I don't think it will be easy for me, but I promise I won't run away," she whispers.

I reach my hand behind her neck and pull her towards me. Her kiss lights a fire inside me that doesn't burn; it's a warm ember that radiates within me and glows the same color as the moon tonight.

She tastes like good things to come.

* * *

 _A/N - I'm leaving this one here. The first chapter of the sequel to this should be up tomorrow. I feel like I need to break away from this case in order to move forward. A sequel with a different title and focus will do that for me. Thank you, thank you for all of the reviews. This one was hard as hell to write and it turned me into a bit of an obsessed lunatic searching for resolution until the wee hours of the morning most nights. I hope the sequel includes more hours of sleep for me! :) xoxo_


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